


De Intus Lupus

by The_Arkadian



Series: De Lupus Intus [1]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Kinkmeme, M/M, Werewolf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-26
Updated: 2012-03-11
Packaged: 2017-10-28 04:21:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 30,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/303673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Arkadian/pseuds/The_Arkadian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written in response to a thread on the LiveJournal Dragonage kinkmeme.<br/>Original prompt here: http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/4443.html?thread=14059867#t14059867</p><p>"Have we had Fenris as a werewolf, or a shape-shifter (who turns into a wolf)?</p><p>Maybe it's something else that was included in the lyrium ceremony, or something - just an idea, feel free to use your own. I'm not talking about turning him into a mage, per se.</p><p>Anyway, I'd love to see something with Fenris as an actual wolf (some of the time).</p><p>I'd like M!Hawke (or Anders) for a pairing, but I'll take what I can get. No non-con!"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Anders didn't think twice when he saw the slaver break from the melee to dart into the nearby trees, dragging the girl with him. Hawke was too preoccupied with finishing off the two slavers he'd cornered, whilst Varric was picking off those further away. He saw no sign of the elf anywhere. The mage snatched up his staff and sprinted into the trees after the slaver and his prey.

He had reason to regret his impulse as he pushed further into the forest; the trees grew close together here, little of the overhead sun making it through the thick canopy - just enough to nurture the bracken and the sprawling brambles that rambled through the gloom, throwing up viciously thorned loops that caught unwary feet. He couldn't quite repress a shiver quite unlike that produced in him by the Deep Roads. This was a different fear; an older one. The fear of a child of the Anderfels who had been raised on dark tales of the dangers of the woods and the beasts within.

A soft growl somewhere to his right seemed to play right into those childhood fears and his heart leapt into his mouth. Eyes wide in alarm, he pushed on into the forest, driven on as faint sounds drifted back to him from the slaver and his unwilling hostage.

Then the girl let out a cry, and Anders' eyes narrowed in anger as he leapt forward, raising his staff and calling the magic into his hands, unheeding of the thorns that tore at his coat, the branches that tangled in his hair and whipped at his face.

The slaver looked up in alarm as the mage burst out of the undergrowth, eyes wild, the magefire glowing balefully about his hands and the head of his staff as he pointed it unerringly at the man, who jerked the girl in front of him, pushing a wickedly slender knife up against her throat as he held her before him like a shield.

"Let her go," growled Anders, taking aim.

"Try it and she dies," spat back the slaver. The girl stared at him with terrified eyes, her long brown hair dishevelled and her face streaked with tears.

"Please - Ser-" she began then fell silent as the blade pressed tighter against her fragile young flesh. She began to sob, trembling in her captor's hands. Anders paused.

If he unleashed a spell, he couldn't be certain of not hitting the girl as well. He stared at the pair, in an agony of indecision. He could try a mindblast, but he couldn't be certain the slaver wouldn't accidentally slit the girl's throat through sheer reflex. The slow, cruel smile that spread across the slaver's face showed he was well aware of the mage's dilemma also.

The deep, low growl from behind startled them all. The slaver glanced over his shoulder then muttered an oath as he shrank to one side, pulling the girl with him. Anders, also distracted, shifted his glance to see what it was... and then froze.

It was a wolf. Not just any wolf, but the biggest wolf Anders had ever seen. An immense beast, easily half as big again as the biggest mabari he'd ever seen. Its fur was silver, marbled with white; it seemed to almost gleam in the half-light of the forest gloom. Its head was lowered, the emerald-green eyes ablaze with a preternatural fire, its teeth bared in a threatening snarl. It stalked slowly forwards, immense powerful muscles bunching, shifting and flexing beneath the shaggy silver fur, murderous intent in its eyes as it fixed its gaze briefly upon the suddenly-terrified mage, then swung its great heavy head to bath the slaver and the girl with its predatory glare.

It seemed a beast straight out of his worst nightmares. Anders was suddenly a child again; a terrified child of barely ten summers, gone too far from the safety of home, the stick in his hands no longer the imagined hefty spear of the fierce hunter but a thin sapling, no more than a twig against such a terrible creature.

Then the wolf sprang, and Anders wasn't sure who screamed loudest – the girl, or him.

The slaver sent the girl sprawling down into the dirt as he turned and fled. Anders flung himself forward almost against his will, swinging his staff wildly at the wolf as he flung himself between the child and the wolf, control of the magic utterly forgotten as he reacted from blind instinct.

“Get away from her! Get away!” he screamed, battering at the creature with a strength born of pure sheer raw fear. The beast recoiled with a snarl that sent a chill down the apostate's spine, but he stood his ground, certain that at any moment the wolf would leap towards him and that his last moments would end in those terrible jaws. The beast growled, low and threatening, and Anders felt his legs trembling, threatening to buckle beneath him. The child behind him clung to his arm and wailed in fear. The wolf gathered itself, muscles rippling beneath its pelt, and Anders briefly closed his eyes, sure he was staring death in the face.

And then it leapt cleanly over them and disappeared into the forest, close upon the trail of the slaver who had run.

Anders fell to his knees, shivering, as the girl threw herself into his arms crying. He held her to his chest, staring down at her in disbelief. It had gone. He had shouted at it, and it had gone. He couldn't believe it. He clutched his staff tightly and cradled the child with his other arm, stunned by what had happened.

Then from behind them in the darkness came a terrible scream.

The sound seemed to spur him out of his momentary fugue as fear caused his heart to race once more. Gathering the girl up into his arms as he lurched to his feet, Anders fled from the forest back towards the light of the clearing and the safety of his companions.

Behind him, the screams had fallen ominously quiet.

This only served to spur his feet on faster, unheeding of the branches and thorns that whipped at his face and tore at his clothes. His foot caught in a loop of bramble; he staggered, the girl in his arms shrieking in alarm; but somehow he managed to catch his feet, pushing himself on. He fancied he could hear panting breath behind him, the soft padding of paws through undergrowth, and his feet sped on faster.

He burst out of the undergrowth into the bright sunlight of the clearing, startling the others as they were making their way around the clearing, rolling over bodies and looting them. Hawke straightened, surprised at the mage's appearance. Wide-eyed and white-faced, he staggered towards them, the girl clutched in his arms with her thin arms flung around his neck, her face buried against his chest. Anders' face was drawn with fear, bleeding from thin cuts across the cheeks and nose; he seemed oblivious to them as he pushed himself forward, still clutching his staff in one hand, his knuckles white.

“Anders? What's wrong?” asked Hawke, taking a step towards the frightened mage.

“I've never seen Blondie so spooked before!” exclaimed Varric quietly as he moved to join them.

The girl in Anders' arms shifted round to look about them; she suddenly wriggled down from the mage's arms with a glad cry of “Mama!” and ran towards one of the freed slaves, who fell to her knees with a glad cry and swept her up into her arms with many tears of rejoicing.

Anders stood silently, clutching his staff in both hands as he fought to bring his breathing back under control. He was still shaking, adrenaline coursing through his veins yet.

“Anders?” said Hawke, putting a reassuring hand on the trembling mage's arm. “What's wrong? What happened back there?”

Anders shook his head, still not capable of speech yet. He took a couple of halting steps forward. All three whirled round at the sounds of someone – or something – making its way out of the forest behind them.

Fenris walked slowly out of the dark gloom under the eaves of the trees, shaking blood off his spiked gauntlets then running his hands down his chest in a futile effort to remove the gore. Blood was smeared around his mouth and across his face. He paused, aware of all eyes upon him, then his own green eyes narrowed as he caught sight of the pale-faced mage. He stalked slowly towards him, fingering a bruise on one cheek with an angry look in his eyes. “Mage.”

Anders' eyes rolled back into his head and, to the utter perplexity of Hawke and Varric, he abruptly crumpled to the ground in a dead faint. The elf halted, staring down at the unconscious man as Hawke dropped to his knees beside Anders and began checking him for any injuries.

“He's not bleeding; I can't find any wounds,” he said, frowning.

“Probably pushed himself to far casting spells; you know how Blondie is,” shrugged Varric as he pulled off a glove and slapped Anders' bloodless cheek briskly. “Come on Blondie, this is no time to be taking a nap!”

The mage groaned quietly as his eyelids fluttered, then he stirred slightly, turning his face away from Varric's hand. “Ow,” he muttered, pushing the dwarf away as he pushed himself up onto his elbows.

“You OK, Anders?” asked Hawke, concerned.

“Yes, I'm fine,” the mage muttered, not looking up as he put a hand to the back of his head and winced. He sat up then glanced around.

“You don't look fine, Blondie,” remarked Varric. “You look as though you've had the fright of your life.”

“You came out of those woods as though a pack of wolves were on your heels,” added Hawke. Anders stilled, then abruptly pulled away from the concerned hand Hawke rested on his shoulder. His eyes flicked briefly up at Fenris, his expression unreadable; then he dropped his gaze, rolled over onto his side and pushed himself up to his feet and turned on his heel.

“I'm perfectly fine!” he snapped, then strode away towards the huddled group of freed slaves. “Anyone hurt?” he called as he approached them. “I'm a healer.” He was rapidly surrounded by grateful people.

“What was all that about?” wondered Hawke as he rose to his feet. He turned to the elf. “Fenris? Any idea?”

Fenris' lip curled in a sneer. “The mage is afraid of his own shadow,” he dismissed. “Pay him no heed.” He folded his arms and watched the mage with a speculative look as Anders moved amongst the rescuees, his hands enfolded in the blue glow of healing as he reached out to heal all who needed it then dropped to one knee to concentrate on a young boy's arm with a quiet word of reassurance, oblivious to the elf's scrutiny.

“Looks like you took care of that last slaver then, elf,” remarked Varric.

“Indeed,” was Fenris' only comment. He glanced down at the blood still smeared across his palms, then popped a finger into his mouth and licked it clean. Varric watched with a faint look of revulsion then shuddered and moved away, bending to retrieve crossbow bolts from the corpses.

Hawke frowned then shook his head as he bent down and picked up his pack, hefting it up onto his back. “It's getting late,” he said, glancing up at the sky. “We've only got another three hours or so of daylight by my guess, but we haven't enough tents for us plus this lot. I think our best bet would be to head over towards the coast; there are some caves along the shore about an hours' walk from here.”

Varric nodded. “Makes sense. We can lead 'em back through the smugglers' tunnels into Darktown afterwards; I doubt we'd be able to get 'em back in the main gate.”

“Not a group this size,” agreed Hawke as he waved Anders back over. Anders finished healing a young woman with a broken wrist, smiling reassuringly at her as he said something to the older woman she was with, then got up and wearily made his way over.

“Hawke, I've done what I can but there's no way we can get them all back to Kirkwall tonight. The children are all tired, and the slavers didn't feed anyone in the group since they left Kirkwall two days ago.” He rubbed his forehead, looking fairly exhausted himself.

“You don't look much better,” remarked Hawke. Anders shook his head.

“I'll be fine. Healing always takes it out of me.” He glanced back at the group then at Hawke again. “What are we going to do with them all?”

“Remember the caves we explored whilst we were looking for that relic of Isabela's a couple of months ago?” asked Varric. Anders nodded.

“They'd make decent shelter for the night,” he agreed. “That's where we're going?”

“It's just an hour away,” explained Hawke. “Do you think the kids will make it OK?”

“They'll have to, won't they?” replied Anders drily. “The adults can carry the younger ones. What'll we do for food? I'm not sure our supplies will stretch to four additional adults and seven kids.”

“I will hunt,” said Fenris, stepping up unexpectedly behind Anders. The mage started with a faint yelp. He darted him a sidelong look, then sidled over towards Varric.

“I'll, er, go round them up and tell them what's happening then, shall I?” he muttered. Hawke nodded with a wave of dismissal.

“You want a hand, elf?” asked Varric, patting Bianca's polished mahogany stock. The elf shook his head.

“No. I'll be faster alone.” Fenris replied quietly. “Dwarves are not exactly renowned for being quiet.”

Varric snorted. “Thought Daisy was the nature-loving one good in forests, not you, Broody!”

“I... became proficient whilst with the Fog Warriors,” said Fenris, inspecting the steel claws of his gauntlets. “I will follow you all shortly.” He glanced over at the mage once more, then turned and disappeared off into the forest.

Anders marshalled the rescued slaves together and herded them towards Hawke and Varric; he was carrying the youngest child – a little lad of about 4 – in his arms whilst the young girl he'd rescued walked beside him, clutching at his coat sleeve. The adults walked alongside him, a couple of them carrying a child each whilst the remaining older children clustered around Anders. “It's just another hours' walk – there'll be shelter and food when we get there, and we'll make a nice big fire so everyone will be warm,” he was explaining, The girl at his side was looking up at him with big adoring eyes; Hawke couldn't quite hide a smile as he watched the group approach.

It took them more than the hour Hawke had estimated; walking at the pace of the children slowed them down, and the adults were weary; particularly those who, like Anders, were carrying children though they swapped off with those who were unencumbered. Even Hawke took a turn carrying small ones. The girl stayed glued to Anders' side, even when they paused to share waterskins and take a brief breather for the sake of the younger ones.

Fenris was waiting for them on the beach when they finally reached the coast. He'd built a fire and set the butchered carcass of the deer he'd felled to roast on a spit over the flames. It was a welcome sight as they straggled over the sand towards the cave.

“That was quick work,” remarked Hawke as he set the small child in his arms down.

“I was... lucky in the hunt,” replied Fenris with a small half-smile.

~~~

They pooled their supplies; with the venison and what they'd carried, they were able to put together a reasonable meal for everyone. Despite his obvious exhaustion, Anders foraged for additional greens and found a stand of beech trees reasonably close nearby, returning with a goodly supply of beech nuts to make beech mast bread; whilst Varric and Hawke set to work preparing the rest of the meal, Anders showed the girl and the two elder boys how to pound the nuts into a paste, binding them together with a little honey and shaping them into flat cakes which he set on stones around the fire to cook.

Fenris watched keenly from where he sat on a log of driftwood across the fire from the mage, watching as the slender fingers worked the dough, gesturing as Anders explained what he was doing to the children. The mage was aware of the elf's eyes upon him, glancing up uneasily now and then.

They all sat around the fire to eat, Anders and the younger children all but falling asleep over their food. Fenris had demurred sharing in the meal, claiming he'd eaten earlier, though he did sample one of the beech mast loaves, his jade-green eyes regarding the tired mage thoughtfully as he ate.

“Anders, you look all in,” observed Hawke as he brushed crumbs out of his beard. “Why don't you turn in?”

Anders nodded wordlessly as the four former slave adults herded the children into the cave. He hefted his pack and followed them. He tugged out his own bedroll and spread it out as bedding for the children, tucking the girl and the two youngest children into his grey Warden blanket with a slight smile before curling up in his feathered coat, pillowing his head against his pack.

~~~

He wasn't sure just what it was that awakened him. Some small sound perhaps, or a chill breeze that struck down the back of his wide collar. Whatever it was, between one heartbeat and the next he was suddenly, completely awake and aware that he was being stared at. Again.

He could see Fenris' dark outline, silhouetted against the low flames of the fire at the mouth of the cave. He was about to roll over and try to get back to sleep when he suddenly realised the elf was studying him.

“So. You are awake,” said the elf quietly. Anders slowly sat up. “How long have you been watching me?” he asked suspiciously. Fenris didn't answer; instead he gestured to the log next to him.

“Sit here,” he said quietly.

“Why?” demanded Anders belligerently. Fenris merely turned and fixed him with his green, lupine stare. Anders quietly got up and made his way to the mouth of the cave, seating himself on the log as far from Fenris as possible.

“So,” said Anders quietly.

“So,” agreed Fenris, staring into the fire. The flames danced gold in his eyes.

“What are you?” asked Anders softly.

“I'm sure you have already guessed for yourself,” replied Fenris, turning to glance at Anders, the reflected firelight turning his gaze to amber.

 _Wolf eyes_ , thought Anders, and shivered. He glanced up at the night sky.

“It's not a full moon, if that is what you are wondering,” said Fenris evenly.

“H-How long....” began Anders, his voice tailing off.

“How long have I been a werewolf?” Fenris finished for him. Anders nodded wordlessly. “I... am not sure. I first... _transformed_... whilst upon Seheron, with the rebels. But it may have been before that.” He raised a hand and began to slowly tug off his gauntlet, then flexed the bare hand slowly, turning it over, the ghostly white lines of lyrium subtly reflecting the moonlight in a glimmer of silver over the dark skin. “I sometimes wonder if it was Danarius who bestowed the curse upon me when he branded the lyrium into my flesh. Perhaps it was the only way to give my body the accelerated powers of healing to cope with the ordeal.”

Anders stared at the lyrium brands seared into the elf's flesh; they were raised, standing out proud of the flesh, their surface taut and smooth, devoid of hair. They were beautiful yet chilling, and this close to the elf he could almost hear the lyrium singing softly to him, calling forth an answering echo from within him. _Like catnip to a cat_ , he mused, then hastily he looked away, his cheeks suffusing with colour, the skin hot.

“You are afraid of me,” said Fenris, in the tones of stating a fact.

“I'd be a bloody fool _not_ to be,” replied Anders, pulling his coat tighter closed around his thin body as he repressed a shiver.

“Why?” asked the elf frankly.

Anders blinked and looked at Fenris to see if he was joking, but the elf's face was perfectly calm, and serious, his eyes holding a frank, questioning look.

“Are you toying with me?” exclaimed Anders in a hushed tone so as not to awaken any of the sleepers. “Just look at you! You can rip the heart out of any man without even breaking his skin, you can transform into a living ghost at will who moves faster than the eye can blink, you're carrying enough lyrium to give any mage the wet dreams of their life with a touch – and believe me, you do not want to know what the proximity to all that lyrium does to Justice - and to cap it all off, you're a bloodthirsty werewolf who can turn into the biggest damned wolf I've ever seen outside of my worst nightmares and who could easily rip my throat out without thinking twice about it!” He stared at Fenris disbelievingly. “What's not to be afraid of?”

“You are scared of wolves?”

Anders stared at the elf for several long minutes, then glanced away, seeming to shrink slightly in upon himself. He mumbled something inaudible.

“Mage?” prompted Fenris.

“Yes,” murmured Anders in a small voice. He stared into the flames, his expression troubled.

“This is why you dislike Hawke's mabari?”

“I don't dislike him, I just....” Anders' voice tailed off as he dropped his gaze to his hands as they rested upon his knees. “I don't know why I'm even talking to you, let alone telling you any of this,” he muttered. “Why should you care how I feel about dogs?”

“Because you know what I am,” replied Fenris.

“And my knowing is a threat to you, am I right?” concluded Anders glumly.

Fenris chuckled, low and throatily. “Mage, if I perceived you as a threat, you would not still be breathing this very minute.” He gave Anders a sidelong glance and suddenly grinned wolfishly. Anders froze and swallowed hard against the fear that suddenly leapt unbidden into his throat.

“You... you wouldn't...” he breathed, unconsciously inching back away from the elf, though Fenris hadn't moved. Fenris stared at him steadily from behind a curtain of snow-white hair, his gaze unflinching. Then he silently rose to his feet and slowly advanced towards the mage.

Anders leapt to his feet and backed away from the elf, eyes widening as he raised his hands in front of him, moving back until his foot hit a stone and he stumbled, sprawling upon his back in the soft sand with a small cry which was instantly silenced as Fenris was upon him, one hand firmly pressed over Anders' mouth, stifling his cry even as the elf's weight pressed him down, pinning him to the ground.

He stared up into Fenris' face, his face pale with fear. The elf in turn stared down into his wide amber eyes, his expression inscrutable. His glass green eyes glittered in the half-light cast by the fire behind them, his face in shadow; the lyrium lines were a faint shimmer of silver against his dusky skin.

Fenris' breath ghosted over the apostate's skin, and Anders stiffened. Suddenly he thrust back at the elf with his hands as a faint blue light began to dance deep within the amber depths of his eyes.

“Oh-ho, the abomination begins to show his true colours,” chuckled the elf darkly. He pressed his free hand flat against Anders' chest, and smiled as the lyrium lines began to glow. Anders went perfectly still, though the blue fire never left the depths of his eyes even as they narrowed in anger.

Fenris smiled wolfishly, and then the smile began to stretch as his nose and jaw began to elongate, the eyes drifting wider apart, the ears slowly moving up the side of his head as silver fur sprouted from the smooth dusky cheeks and the bones of his skull shifted and moved, contours changing. His body, too, was stretching, changing, the fingers upon his hands shortening, nails lengthening and darkening as they became sharp-tipped claws. The moonlight glinted off rippling fur and the wolf crouched over the prone mage, shaking its shaggy mane and stretching out its neck as the dread beast's maw opened to reveal rows of gleaming white fangs mere inches away from Anders' face.

The blue fire died in his amber gaze as his eyes glazed over in fear, mind driven beyond where Justice could reach. Anders' body trembled uncontrollably beneath the wolf, and as the lupine green eyes stared down at the vulnerable, terrified man, Anders moaned softly before his eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped, unconscious.

The wolf stared down at him for a moment. Then shaking himself all over, he leapt over Anders' prostrate form and away into the darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

Anders stirred, the morning sun upon his face warm. He shifted slightly, then froze as dawning consciousness brought the memory of what had happened last night, together with the realisation that his fingers were touching soft woven wool, not sand. His eyes flickered open and he blinked against the bright light.

Hawke was kneeling by the fire, stirring something cooking in the pot and talking to one of the adults they had rescued the previous day. As Anders glanced round, he could see Varric sitting further over from the fire, polishing the stock of Bianca whilst talking to the children who sat in front of him, listening avidly to whatever tall tale the dwarf was spinning. Of Fenris he could see no sign.

Anders sat up slowly, frowning slightly as he brushed sand out of his loose hair, then glanced behind him into the cave.

Fenris lay curled up on the bare floor of the cave, sleeping peacefully. Anders glanced down and realised he was wrapped in the elf’s blanket.

Revulsed, he hastily disentangled himself from the suddenly-constrictive dark fabric and lurched to his feet, kicking the blanket aside as he fastidiously brushed himself down and fervently hoped the cur hadn't been carrying fleas.

"Ah, the sleeper awakens!" announced Varric. Hawke glanced around as the young girl Anders had rescued the previous day (but hadn't it really been Fenris, a small voice whispered in his head) jumped up with a happy squeal and came racing to the apostate's side.

Anders stared down at her in mild bewilderment then made his way over to the fire, hampered only slightly as the girl hung on to his arm, smiling happily. As Anders sat down next to Varric, the dwarf smiled sympathetically.

"Looks like you've got a fan, Blondie," Varric remarked.

"So it seems," mused Anders as he gently ruffled the girl's dishevelled brown hair. "Hawke, why wasn't I wakened for my turn on watch?" Out of the corner of his eye he spied Fenris suddenly sitting up and fixing him with a sharp stare.

"Oh, Fenris pointed out you'd been on the go and wearing yourself out and told me afterwards he'd stood your watch as well as his own so you'd be recovered in case we run into any trouble today," replied Hawke as he ladled out a bowl of cooked grains and passed it to the mage.

"That's... uncharacteristically thoughtful of him," mused Anders before starting to wolf down his breakfast.

“I’ll never understand how you can put away so much food so quickly like that and yet always look as though you’re starving,” mused Hawke as he took the empty bowl from Anders and refilled it. Anders took it back with a nod of thanks and returned to shovelling cooked grains into his mouth.

“‘s a Grey Warden thing,” he mumbled as his gaze wandered around the camp area, mentally noting where everyone was. His gaze darted back to the empty spot Fenris had occupied a short while previously. _Ah._ “Besides, I don’t get to eat like this often. Most of the time I -” He broke off, and shrugged. “It doesn’t matter,” he finished lamely.

He froze, the spoon halfway to his mouth, as Fenris’ gauntletted hand came down suddenly upon his feathered shoulder. “Good morning, Hawke,” the deep voice rumbled just behind the mage.

“Ah, Fenris, good timing - if you’d waited any longer I think Anders would have finished off the pot!” joked Hawke as he served up a bowl of porridge for the elf.

“Indeed?” replied Fenris, seating himself nearby - just in sight of the apostate. Anders dropped his gaze and seemed to recall the spoonful of food that still lingered halfway towards his mouth, cooling in the morning air. He swallowed it with difficulty.

“And where does he put it, I wonder?” mused Fenris, his tone one of amusement. “He’d barely make a mouthful for any predator, scrawny as he is.”

Anders sat up straight at that, bristling with indignation. He brandished his spoon at the elf. “Now you look here -” he began.

“Oh look, the mage is threatening me with a spoon!” laughed Fenris. “Oh help, save me Hawke, whatever shall I do!”

“Someone’s in a rare good mood,” observed Varric as Anders gaped for a moment at the chuckling elf. Abruptly he pushed himself to his feet, thrusting the half-empty bowl back at Hawke as he stalked away.

~ o O o ~

They pushed on shortly after that, wanting to make it back to the smuggler’s tunnels and into the relative safety of Darktown before nightfall. Anders and Fenris spent the whole journey sniping at each other the whole way until finally Hawke sent Fenris on to scout ahead and Anders back to walk with the children. He felt almost sorry for the apostate, who seemed to be coming of worse in the exchanges. Normally it would have been the mage needling the elf, but both Hawke and Varric noticed that unusually, it was the elf initiating the exchanges. The warrior and the dwarf exchanged glances before Varric launched into one of his epic tales to distract the rescuees - and the mage.

As they reached the familiar tunnels, Fenris rejoined them - accompanied by Merrill, to Hawke’s surprise.

“Hawke, there is a group of elves waiting for us,” he remarked quietly.

“Specifically for us?” replied Hawke, raising an eyebrow.

“Word has gotten round of how you helped Feynriel,” replied Merrill. “Some of the elvhen parents in the Alienage ask if you’d be willing to take their children to Sundermount, to the Dalish there.”

Hawke halted, the refugees, Anders and Varric clustering round him. Hawke glanced at the refugees then at Merrill. “I’m not - I’m...” He made a note of frustration as he ran a hand through his unruly black hair. Merrill stared up at him hopefully.

“You _will_ help them, won’t you, Hawke? Templars have been seen in the Alienage and their parents are frightened.”

“Oh. Just bloody marvelous,” muttered Hawke, feeling Anders stir at mention of Templars. He didn’t need to look round to know the expression that must be on the apostate’s face right now.

“Yes, Anders, I know,” he groaned. “Let’s get this group packed off to Lirene first, OK?”

Thus it was that a few hours later Hawke found himself leading yet another group of pilgrims - this time back the way they’d come, and accompanied by Merrill. This group was smaller; two adults, and no small children - the three youngsters were all in their mid teens, and every single one of them a mage.

To Hawke’s surprise, Fenris had insisted upon accompanying the group. Hawke was still puzzling over that one as they emerged from the caves into the thin light of the late afternoon. The Wounded Coast seemed much less inviting than it had that morning; the gathering clouds didn’t bode well for travel up onto the mountains.

As Hawke paused, taking in the changes in the sea air and the wan sunlight that showed briefly between the fast scudding clouds, Varric stomped up next to him, shaking his head.

“I don’t know, Hawke; something doesn’t feel right about all of this. Elven apostates being chased by Templars? And that’s storm weather brewing, if I’m any judge. Sundermount’s not going to exactly be a stroll in the woods, Hawke.”

“At least we have tents and supplies enough for us all this time. We won’t have to rely on Fenris’ hunting skills,” remarked Hawke.

“Maybe someone ought to have pointed that out to the elf,” replied Varric. Hawke frowned, then looked back to the rest of the group.

Sure enough, the elf had vanished. There was no sign of him anywhere. No wonder Anders was looking fairly relaxed as he chatted quietly to one of the elven apostates. Hawke cursed quietly.

~ o O o ~

Fenris was well aware of the threat of the approaching weather. He could smell the approaching snow on the wind that ruffled his fur as he loped through the forest that ran parallel to the cliffs above the coastline. As a wolf, he was aware and a part of the shifting patterns of nature in a way that he could barely have dreamed of as an elf.

As he was aware of so many other things. The sharp tang of fear that poisoned the scent of the mage whenever he was near, for instance.

He was well aware of the effect his presence had on the mage; whilst it had been, for a time, a source of amusement, that amusement had worn thin swiftly. The mage’s fear hampered his effectiveness as a member of the party; it introduced a random element of unpredictability to the already-volatile nature of the mage’s personality. Though Fenris had managed to overcome his own distrust of mages to the point where he considered he functioned fairly well in Hawke’s motley assorted group, it had not occurred to him that his own presence could affect the cohesiveness of that same group - but there it was; the mage now feared him far more than he had previously, and that fear was affecting his effectiveness as group healer and much more.

Fenris had been used to being a source of fear to the opponents of Danarius. He had not thought overmuch about it then; he had simply been a tool of his master, and he had considered that the fear he engendered in others was simply an extension of the respect owed to his master - that is, when he considered it at all. But to be feared simply because of what he was?

He had seen the sheer, unreasoning terror in the mage’s amber brown eyes, and for the first time he had felt... remorse. Guilt for being the cause of that fear. He could not help being what he was, but strangely it disquietened him to think his mere existence could cause terror to another in the way that he had failed to see even the Templars do to Anders.

He remembered all too clearly the constant state of fear and terror that was existence under the dominion of Danarius. He remembered too well the sickening feeling that dogged his every waking moment that Danarius’ pursuit of him dogged his fleeting steps. Even now, he would wake sometimes in a panic, dreaming he was back in Minrathous again, fearing what new punishment the magister would have dreamed up for him during these months - nay, years now of freedom. The thought that his mere presence could reduce another to that state of terror was abhorrent to him - even if that other were a mage.

He paused and shook his head dismissively. What had magic ever touched that it had not twisted or perverted in some way? Was his own existence not proof of that?

And yet... did the wrong that had been done to him give him the right to enjoy terrifying another like that? No. It wasn’t in his nature to take pleasure in another’s fear. Rather, he felt a grudging pity for the mage. He was caught in a trap not of his own making, and the part of gaoler did not sit well with the elf, so long denied freedom himself.

A twig snapped beneath a booted foot. The wolf paused, great head swinging round as a familiar scent came to his sensitive nose. Lyrium and cold steel. There were Templars in the forest.


	3. Chapter 3

Anders blinked as a snowflake tumbled lazily past his nose, then glanced up. The sky was a leaden grey, the clouds heavy and full. It was growing dark already, and they were barely into the foothills. He glanced over towards Varric, and wasn’t surprised to see the dwarf mirroring his own look of concern.

“Hawke,” he called, and the warrior halted, turning to glance back at the mage as he pushed on passed the small group of apostates, jumping nimbly from rock to rock as he made his way up the shale-strewn path to where Hawke stood.

He gestured at the fine flakes floating down all around them. “This isn’t good, Hawke,” he said quietly. “If Templars are behind us, they’ll find our trail as clear as if we posted flags for them - ‘Escaping apostates this way!’”

Hawke nodded, glancing up at the gathering storm. “We could get lucky - it could blow a blizzard that hides us from them completely.”

Anders shook his head. “That could only make things worse. Have you ever tried to bivouac on a mountainside in the middle of a snowstorm, Hawke? This lot have never camped before - can you imagine what they’ll be like trying to set up camp in the freezing cold, blinded by snow and fighting the wind the whole way?” He frowned. “We’d be lucky if we only lost half of them to the cold overnight. These mountains are lethal in winter, Hawke.”

“What choice do we have?” exclaimed Hawke, glancing to Varric for support.

“Blondie’s right, Hawke. We need to find somewhere secure to shelter now, before the storm hits us.” The dwarf had to raise his voice to be heard above the rising wind.

“And it’s too late to turn back I suppose?” sighed Hawke.

“Much too late,” answered Fenris suddenly as he loomed up beside Anders out of the steadily falling snow. Anders cried out in surprise then shrank away from the elf, who seemed to blend in to the icy terrain with his stone-grey-hued armour and hair as white as the snow that now blanketed the ground all around them. Ignoring the mage, Fenris shook snow out of his hair as he moved forward; Anders couldn’t help but notice there was fresh blood on the elf’s steel gauntlets.

“There are Templars following. Not as many as there were -” He paused to eye his gauntlets with grim amusement - “But still enough to trouble us, burdened as we are with these... mages.” His lip curled slightly in derision as he glanced back at the apostates who were clustered around Merrill.

“You act as though we were incapable of defending ourselves!” growled Anders, planting his staff firmly in the snow. A dangerous light gleamed in his amber eyes as he glared at the elf. “I can assure you I am more than capable of fighting Templars, as is Merrill.”

“Peace, mage,” responded Fenris, surprisingly unruffled. “I was speaking of the refugees, not you. I’ve seen your capabilities for myself, but they are untested and untempered by combat. They will likely break and flee at the first approach of a Templar.”

Anders’ fingers tightened upon the haft of his staff as the fingers of his free hand curled into a fist as he drew himself up to tower over the slender elf.

“Anders, Fenris, give it a break!” growled Hawke. “We don’t have time for this. Fenris, how far behind us are the templars?”

“An hour, perhaps more if this weather holds,” replied the elf. Hawke nodded. Glancing up at the clouds, he pondered for a moment. 

“Anders, you’re from the Anderfels - you know weather like this better than anyone. Will it hold?”

Anders nodded. “It’ll hold, alright,” he confirmed. “We’re in for a blizzard.”

“Then we’d best find shelter and fast,” decided Hawke. “Preferably off the main path. Merrill!”

The Dalish elf excused herself from the apostates and lithely ran to join the others. “They’re all so excited - they don’t get to see snow much in the Alienage,” she smiled. “It doesn’t really get down as far as there in Kirkwall; they usually just get a bit of grey slush.”

“They’re likely to see more of their fill of it than they expected,” replied Hawke, and he quickly went on to explain the situation to her. She frowned thoughtfully.

“Not good to get caught in the open,” she said quietly. “But I think I know a good place. It won’t be easy to get to, mind; it’s over a shale slope.”

“Ropes, I’m thinking,” said Anders quietly. 

“Mmm,” she agreed, nodding. “I’ll lead; then I think Hawke, then Varric, Anders and Fenris last. We’ll space the others between us.”

“Why Blondie and Broody at the back? Isn’t that asking for trouble?” asked Varric, troubled. Anders shook his head.

“It’s down to who’s the biggest but also the strongest,” replied Anders. “If the apostates between us fall, between us we’ll be able to get them out.” He glanced at Fenris, not bothering to voice aloud his doubt as to how well he thought Fenris would take to being roped up in the middle. 

"Well, we'd best be about it whilst we still have daylight left to us," decided Hawke. "Call them over, Merrill, and let's get started." He turned to Anders as Merrill beckoned the apostates over. “If the templars catch up to us before we get to safety, I want you and Merrill to take the apostates and make for Sundermount. We’ll keep them off your backs.”

“Hawke, I don’t -” began Anders, but Varric cut him off with a shake of his head.

“Hawke’s right, Blondie,” he agreed. “You and Daisy have the best chance of getting these kids to safety in weather like this. We’ll hold ‘em off your backs.”

Anders stared at Varric, then at Hawke, helpless. He knew it was the apostates’ only chance.

That didn’t mean he had to like it though.

The way was difficult right from the outset. Once they were all roped together, Merrill immediately plunged off the main path and into the snow which was already drifting deep, forming banks against rock faces and deceptively smoothing over cracks and hollows in the mountain face. Their way was hindered by the driving snow which rapidly transitioned from light, fat flakes into hard, driving powder that stung their eyes and faces. At Merrill and Anders’ urgings, nearly everyone had taken spare blankets, wraps or shawls from their packs and wrapped them around their heads and mouths to protect themselves as much as possible, but still they were poorly equipped for such a venture in the wintry storm, and Anders knew it all too well. They’d be lucky if they all made it through the night with nothing worse than frostbite to show for it.

A child of the Anderfels, Anders had known of the dangers of such sudden storms in the mountains almost as soon as he could walk. The mountains held no fear for him, unlike the Deep Roads. At least here there was open sky above one’s head - even if he couldn’t see it right this particular moment. But he was no fool; the mountains could be just as deadly as the Deep Roads, in their own way.

This was not the way he would have chosen to tackle Sundermount - then again, he wouldn’t have tried in winter anyway, given a choice. Choice was something thin on the ground these days it seemed however - unlike the snow underfoot which he was ploughing through steadily. He was glad for the thick leggings he wore under his robes; from the whimpering of one of the young apostates just behind him, he gathered that the young mages hadn’t had the forethought to do likewise. Long robes were all very well in a Circle, but rather less than practical when on the run from Templars. It was a lesson these city-bred elves were learning the hard way.

In the Wardens, they’d taken a practical approach to mages’ attire; the dress for mages not differing much from that of rogues, the robes light and comfortable like those worn in Tevinter, worn over the top of serviceable leggings and boots. Some mages even wore basic armour. He’d heard of some who’d mastered the Arcane Warrior path who wore armour and bore weapons enchanted so they could channel spells through them as well as any staff; he couldn’t imagine himself ever following that path himself, but he’d heard stories. And just one glance at Merrill should have told them that amongst the Dalish, robes were strictly optional. He glanced at the girl in front of him, floundering in her sodden robes, and shook his head before reaching out a steadying hand to her. She looked back at him with a grateful smile, but he only had healer’s eyes for the reddening patches on cheeks and nose as he sighed and wondered if any of these apostates had any rudimentary healing skills amongst them.

He shivered as they forged on through the deepening snow, Merrill finding her way ahead carefully, probing the snow cautiously with her staff at each step. It made their progress slow, but it was better than half their party inadvertently blundering into a hidden ravine. Sundermount was too low to have glaciers (and wasn’t he glad of that!) but it still had hazards aplenty to plague the feet of unwary travellers who ventured off the beaten path.

The wind howled around them until Anders was certain a whole battalion of Templars could have marched up behind him and he would never have known. He could only hope the blizzard was likewise deafening and blinding any pursuit that attempted to dog their footsteps. But surely only a madman would try to push on through a storm like this.

A madman... or Hawke. Anders could barely make out the warrior ahead, but Hawke seemed set and resolute as he marched on through the storm. Anders wondered how the man must be faring, encased in all that freezing cold metal. He felt chilled enough in his layers of padding; shirt and leggings, knee-length robe, padded patchwork tunic coat and his feathered jacket over the top plus his grey Warden blanket swathed around his head and shoulders for protection, and yet still he felt half-frozen, and he knew the young apostates were faring much worse. They _had_ to stop and make camp soon, or they’d be dragging corpses to Sundermount, not refugees.

The girl directly in front of Anders swayed and stumbled, and Anders moved swiftly to catch her. Slinging her arm over his shoulder, he bowed his head and pushed on until he could draw level with Varric.

“We have to make camp!” he yelled to the dwarf.

“What?” yelled back the dwarf, deafened by the wind. Anders jerked his head at the girl.

“They’re dropping! Must make camp! Tell Hawke!”

This time the dwarf appeared to have heard him as he nodded and pressed on, yanking at the rope attaching Hawke to the young man just behind him to get the warrior’s attention. Hawke tugged on Merrill’s rope to get her attention, then turned back to the dwarf, crouching down to better hear him.

“What’s the hold up?” Anders yelped in surprise as Fenris’ breath ghosted over his cheek, warm and sweet. He’d been oblivious to the elf’s approach in the midst of the storm. He gestured to the girl in his arms as he placed his mouth next to the elf’s ear.

“They can’t carry on much further. They’re at their limits. We need to make camp.”

The elf frowned, glancing back the way they’d come, before leaning in close to Anders. “The Templars are still behind us,” he shouted as the wind whipped his words away; Anders’ widening eyes told him the mage had heard, however.

“If we hide...?”

Fenris shrugged. Who could say?

Varric, Merrill and Hawke stomped back to join them as the apostates clustered round. Hawke tried to shout something but none of them could quite make it out. Sighing, Anders closed his eyes as he grounded his staff firmly against the snow-covered rock and channelled mana into a brief shield spell.

“Thanks, Anders,” muttered Hawke as they were briefly cocooned from the screaming banshee wail of the storm.

“Be quick; Fenris says the templars are still on our trail, and any magic will draw them if they’re close enough to feel it,” warned Anders.

“Point taken,” nodded Hawke. “Alright; Merrill says there’s a rock overhang just a few minutes further that way.” He gestured somewhat to the right of the path they’d been traversing. “We should be able to set up camp under there, and with any luck the templars will miss us completely in this blizzard. They’ll be pinned down just as bad by the weather as we are.”

Anders nodded. The apostates looked at each other wanly, then nodded to Hawke, who glanced to Varric and Fenris. Both nodded.

“What choice do we have?” shrugged Fenris.

“Very well. Keep close together, and let’s be going,” said Hawke.

Anders waited until Hawke nodded, and then he dropped the spell.

Instantly they were once more plunged into dark, icy hell.

Blinking against the stinging fury of the blizzard, Anders struggled on, thinking longing thoughts of the welcoming fire at the Hanged Man, hot food and a warm bed.

It would be a long time before he would feel warm again.


	4. Chapter 4

Fenris stirred. He wasn’t sure at first what had awakened him, but then the noise came again. A small, muffled whimper.

He cursed himself for having drifted off to sleep on watch as he quietly got up and inched his way past the sleepers. It was the cold, of course. Even here within the shelter of the overhang, turned into a bivouac with all the canvas of their tents walling off this shallow cave from the blizzard outside, it was still cold.

They hadn’t dared build a fire for fear of suffocating themselves as snow built up against the canvas; what little light there was came from his own lyrium lines as he willed them faintly into life, the cold silver light giving off no warmth. The chill made them all sluggish and drowsy, and as the elf glanced over the still forms of the sleepers he wondered how many would wake on the morrow; how many would they find frozen into stillness forever?

The sound came again. His eyes narrowed in concentration, Fenris scanned the dark shelter.

Ah. The mage.

There were seven mages present beside himself, Varric and Hawke, of course, but only one who was ever customarily referred to by that moniker by the elf, and it was towards that one mage in particular that he now made his way.

Anders was hunched inside his feathered coat, his grey woollen blanket wrapped around himself until only his ponytail peeped out above the homespun fabric; it quivered as the sleeping mage made some half-vocalised sound of protest. Fenris regarded him with a small frown, drawing closer.

The faint silvery glow was not enough to draw Anders from sleep, ghostly as it was; it was sufficient for the elf to be able to see that the apostate healer’s eyes were still closed as he rolled over onto his back, brow furrowed in distress as he made that odd, muffled sound again, his hands clenching spasmodically upon the blanket.

Muffled or no, those odd strangled sounds could still carry and perhaps draw unwanted attention. Fenris had no idea what the mage could be dreaming of to distress him so, but he needed to snap him out of it.

“Mage. Mage!” he hissed quietly, laying a hand on a feathered shoulder.

“No... no... they’re coming,” Anders murmured restlessly, eyes closed.

“The templars?”

“Darkspawn,” breathed Anders. “So many....”

Ah. Of course. Though the apostate had left the Grey Wardens, somethings could not be left behind so easily. Fenris patted the feathered shoulder awkwardly. “There are no darkspawn here,” he rumbled quietly. He ran a curious hand through the mage’s dark blond hair, then paused. Anders had seemed to relax a little at his touch. Slowly, he ran his fingers through the golden locks, and Anders sighed softly.

Bemused, Fenris found himself slowly, steadily, gently stroking Anders’ hair as the mage sank into a deeper, more restful sleep. He was still sitting there a couple of hours later when the time came to wake Varric for his watch.

 

Two of the apostates were dead by morning, one of them being the girl Anders had had to carry the last few hundred yards to where they’d made camp. Anders gently covered her face with her own cloak sadly. Hawke caught his eye as he turned away, and gave him a sympathetic look.

Merrill and Varric were slowly, cautiously breaking their way through the bank of snow which had built up against the outside of the shelter during the blizzard; as Merrill’s hand broke through the snow, brilliant sunshine flooded in through the hole, blinding them. The Dalish elf and the dwarf steadily widened the hole they’d made, clearing the exit for the others.

“All seems clear, Hawke,” Varric called back into the shelter. One by one the others slung on their packs and exited into the fierce winter sun, staring about them as they blinked.

The mountainside was blanketed in white; it was impossible to tell where was path and where ravines, everything smoothed over in a mantle of white. Merrill and Anders exchanged concerned looks then walked a little way off to talk.

“What will we do with...with....” began one of the apostates, gesturing back towards the cave as Varric started to retrieve the tents.

Hawke glanced back at the overhang. “The ground’s too hard for burying them, but there’s no time to build a pyre,” said Hawke slowly.

“We’ll deal with it, Hawke,” interrupted Anders, gesturing to himself and Merrill.

“Are you sure?” asked Hawke. The blond apostate merely nodded.

“Go on ahead with the others,” he said quietly. “We’ll... take care of them.”

Hawke nodded slowly and patted Anders awkwardly on the arm. “Join us as quickly as you can, and watch out for templars,” he said quietly.

As Hawke and the others slowly began to make their way onwards, Hawke and Fenris breaking trail through the deep snow for the weaker apostates and the shorter dwarf who brought up the rear, Anders and Merrill stood side by side and regarded the two shrouded bodies beneath the overhang.

“Shouldn’t we... you know... say something?” asked Merrill.

“I don’t know,” said Anders quietly. “Andrastian prayers don’t seem quite right for elves who wanted to be Dalish.”

“And yet they weren’t Dalish,” said Merrill. “Not yet, anyway. Suppose now they never will be.” She sniffed a little. “Doesn’t seem fair, so close and yet so far.”

“At least they died free, which is more than they would have got back in Kirkwall.”

“You’re right,” agreed Merrill. “I suppose words don’t matter much to them any more.”

“No, I suppose not,” agreed Anders softly. “Ready?”

“Ready,” agreed Merrill as they both raised their hands, calling up fire before incinerating the small cave and everything in it.

 

They climbed the mountain steadily afterwards, side by side. Light snow had started to drift down again, filling in the broken trail where the others had passed. Anders helped Merrill whenever her footing slipped, and she in turn wordlessly tugged him back onto the narrow trail when he accidentally blundered a little too far into one of the drifts. They communicated by silent glances, gestures, a nod of the head; the air was frigid and neither felt like talking.

Merrill paused and bent down to pick up something from the snow, holding it out wordlessly to Anders. He frowned; it was a leather glove. He turned it over in his hands; whoever it belonged to would have a frostbitten hand before long. Suddenly the colour drained from his face.

“Templars.”

“They found their trail?”

“Must have done. Come on.” Anders plunged on ahead, fear lending new strength to his feet as he drove on through the fresh snow, Merrill only a footstep behind him.

The Templars must have come upon the trail and decided to follow; it was now a question of whether the fleeing apostates could make it up to the Dalish camp before the templars could catch them up. If Anders and Merrill hurried, they would have the element of surprise over the templars - who with any luck would be suffering the effects of the winter cold even worse than the fugitives, who didn’t have chill steel armour to sap away precious body heat.

Unfortunately, as they cleared a ridge up onto a plateau, they found the templars had, indeed, caught up to the fugitives. One of the apostates lay upon the snow, blood staining the frozen ground crimson. The remaining apostates were huddled together behind Hawke, Varric and Fenris who were holding off seven templar.

“Not good,” muttered Anders as he called mana into his hands. “Anyone call for some destructive forces of nature?” he shouted, distracting the templars as he followed up his words with a fireball. The distraction was enough to give Fenris and Hawke an opening against their respective opponents; unfortunately for Anders, one of the nearest templars retaliated by smiting him.

He gasped as he felt the familiar exhaustion wash over him, all his magic draining away in an instant. He reached inside himself, but it was gone. Even Justice seemed walled up and impotent, raging silently and helplessly as a wave of lassitude rolled over the apostate. He reeled back even as the templar advanced towards him. He stepped back to the edge of the plateau, raising his staff in a protective gesture.

He was aware of Merrill’s hopeless cry next to him, and he realised she’d likely never been on the receiving end of a templar’s powers before. He could spare her only a brief sympathetic glance as he pushed her out of the way then prepared to try and fight off the templar physically.

In his time with the Wardens, he’d picked up a few tips on hand-to-hand combat, but not as much as he would have liked. He didn’t much rate his chances as the templar swung his blade over his head then brought it whistling down towards Anders’ head; the mage ducked back, parrying the blow to the side with the metal-bladed foot of his staff before he reversed it and jabbed the point hard against the templar’s chest. The templar knocked the staff aside with a gauntleted fist, following through with the blade again. Anders jerked back out of reach of the sword....

And his heel came down upon thin air.


	5. Chapter 5

The blond apostate was utterly silent as he fell. There was a moment as he seemed to hang there, arms outstretched, the tips of his toes on one foot barely touching the rock outcrop, the other poised upon nothing. His amber eyes widened a little in surprise.

And then as Merrill cried out, as Hawke screamed his name, a faint look of realisation dawned as he dropped, his lips parted only in an unvoiced “oh”.

“Blondie!” yelled Varric only a second after Hawke’s scream of denial, and the last two apostates cried out in hopeless despair as the remaining templars turned grimly to finish their task - even as sounds from further down the mountain face herald the approach of more templars.

“Hawke, it’s hopeless!” cried Fenris as Merrill retreated unwillingly from the two templars advanced upon her. He ran through his opponent as Varric dealt with another, then he gestured at the larger group steadily advancing up the mountainside towards them. Hawke glanced at him, then at the group and his shoulders slumped. 

“Oh, just bloody marvellous,” he said in disgust. “Can today get any worse?”

“I’m coming, Daisy!” called Varric; Fenris glanced over as he felt a strange yet familiar ripple over his skin, and his eyes widened as his lyrium brands abruptly flared into life at the touch of magic.

“How-!” he exclaimed.

“Maleficar!” one of the templars screamed as a red mist enveloped Merrill, and then abruptly both templars screamed and writhed as their blood boiled within their bodies. They seemed to dance in agony for a few moments before finally crumpling to the ground, dead.

“Oh. Apparently it can,” remarked Hawke to no-one in particular. “Congratulations, Merrill, you just outed yourself as a maleficar in full view of another troop of templar.” He gestured towards the approaching templars who would be upon them all too soon.

“It was that or join Anders,” she replied, her voice bitter and unrepentant. The four turned and stared down the cliff face.

It was a sheer drop for about twenty feet before the mountain slowly sloped outwards; broken boulders, scree and loose shale fanned out over the talus field at the foot of the cliff, partially buried by snow. At first glance they could see no sign of the fallen mage - and then something fluttered in the breeze, catching their eyes. A feathered pauldron.

Anders lay half-buried in snow and loose scree, his legs covered to the hips with dislodged snow banked up against his left side, his left arm almost entirely covered. His face was turned away from them, but as they watched, he stirred slightly, his other hand reaching slowly for his staff.

“Blondie’s a hard man to kill,” said Varric wonderingly. “How are we going to get him back up here?”

“We have no time,” said Fenris, glancing over to where he could see the templars steadily scaling the snow-mantled mountainside towards them.

“We can’t leave him!” cried Hawke.

“If we stay, then we’re all dead, Hawke,” remarked Fenris.

Hawke stared at him, then turned to Varric, who shrugged.

“Elf’s right, much though I hate to have to admit it, Hawke. If we stay here, the other apostates are done for. It’s us - or Blondie.” His eyes were sympathetic as he regarded Hawke, who groaned and turned away.

“Alright, you all go. I’ll stay and see if I can get to Anders before they do,” he decided.

“And do what - kill him before they can overpower you both and make him Tranquil?” sneered Fenris.

“And I suppose you’ve got a better idea?” snarled Hawke, squaring up to the elf who bristled.

“Easy, the pair of you,” said Varric. “Of all the nug-brained places to pick a fight you have to choose _here?_ ”

“Well?” challenged Hawke.

“I’ll stay,” replied Fenris.

“What?” Hawke blinked, nonplussed.

“You heard me,” replied Fenris. “Go, before I change my mind.”

“I don’t-” began Hawke.

“Hawke, you’re the only one of us the Dalish will listen to - do you honestly think they’re going to welcome the blood mage back with open arms?” He gestured at Merrill, then at the last two apostates who regarded them all nervously. “Much less two strangers with no-one to vouch for them?”

“He’s right, Hawke,” said Merrill sadly. “Keeper Marethari may welcome me but she’ll be the only one.”

Hawke stared down at the small figure of Anders, then back at the two scared apostates, and finally at Fenris. His shoulders slumped and he nodded.

“Go,” said the elf, and turned his back on them as they departed.

 

Once he was certain they were out of line of sight, Fenris briefly checked the other slope. The templars were still steadily climbing; this group seemed to be better fitted for mountain travel in these conditions. They wore fur-trimmed coats over their armour, stout leather gauntlets, and spiked footgear - and they had brought ropes and ice-picks. They were making better time up the mountain face than Hawke’s ragged fugitives had.

He still had some time however - and the elf had an advantage that only one other knew. And Anders was in no position to give his secret away.

Fenris walked back to the cliff edge and peered down. It would be a challenging climb for anyone, man or elf - but as a wolf?

He grinned, and the grin grew, stretched, shifted, teeth becoming fangs as his body changed; and it was as the immense silver wolf that he leapt down towards the snow-strewn talus field where the mage lay.

 

Time seemed to slow as he fell. His foot came down on thin air even as he threw out his hands to try and catch his balance. For a moment he seemed poised - and then he felt the inexorable tug of gravity at the same moment he saw a look of triumph cross the templar’s face. Merrill cried out, her outstretched hand just out of his reach. A male voice screamed his name: Hawke. A moment of regret for might-have-beens.

And then he was falling, the cliff face rushing past in a blur of grey before-

 

Pain. He must have blacked out when he struck the talus. He was in so much pain. Something sticky slowly seeping down the side of his face. His legs were pinned down, the right leg ablaze in agony from the knee down. Dull throbbing ache in the back of his head. And cold... so cold. He seemed to be partially buried in a mixture of scree, ice and snow.

He blinked his eyes open with difficulty. Rolling his head to one side he could see his staff just a little distance away to his right. He tried to reach it, but it remained just out of the grasp of his fingers. It seemed to taunt him, so close and yet so far.

 _Tired. So tired._ The templar’s smite had not only drained his magic but robbed him of energy as well.

_Sleep. Want to sleep._

He closed his eyes wearily.

Something nudged his hand. He blinked, trying to focus with difficulty; a vague silvery shape seemed to loom over him. He couldn’t make it out. He blinked again, slowly; it had started to snow again and fat snowflakes were starting to cling to his eyelashes, making it even harder to see.

He was so chilled to the bone that he wasn’t even shivering any longer, and the healer part of his brain knew he was in serious trouble. But he couldn't think straight. _Easier to sleep._

Curious green eyes swum into view as his eyelids drooped. Hmm. Green. That should mean something, he knew. But the thought floated away before he could grasp it.

 

Something was nuzzling his throat. Oh. He’d closed his eyes for a moment. Some faint instinct of self-preservation whispered that was dangerous, but he couldn’t remember why.

He wasn’t so cold anymore. Just sleepy.

The nuzzling wouldn’t let him be. Now teeth were worrying at the collar of his jacket which was filling with snow - tugging. He tried to raise an arm to brush the nuisance away, but his arm wouldn’t work properly.

Then the silver ghost tugged hard at his collar and white-hot pain shot through his broken leg as he was dragged free of the talus. His body stiffened with the shock of sudden agony; he tried to scream, but nothing came; his lungs felt on fire as he gasped in frigid air and abruptly spasmed. He thrashed, briefly, choking on the sub-zero air, eyes wide.

The green eyes swum into view before him; they seemed somehow...concerned, even as they floated away into the darkness that claimed him.


	6. Chapter 6

Fenris nearly dropped the mage when he went into paroxysms of choking; he stared down at him, at a loss for what to do, but then the mage slumped into unconsciousness. To his relief, after a few anxious moments Anders began to breath more normally again. Taking a firmer grasp of the mage’s wide collar in his powerful jaws, he began to tug him away from the talus field, back downhill.

He tried not to think what further damage he must be doing to the mage’s leg as he dragged him along as silently as he could. He could see from the unnatural angle it lay at that the ankle at least was broken, and he suspected there was further damage just below the knee; but he dared not stop just yet. He could smell the templars nearby, and he had to get the mage hidden away before deciding what to do about them.

He made for the overhang where they had sheltered the previous night, in lieu of any better plan. If nothing else, at least it would be somewhere dry where he could better evaluate how gravely the mage was injured. It would be many hours before Anders would be capable of healing himself, but perhaps a healing potion or two would give him a head start and a better chance of survival.

The snow was coming down heavier now, hiding their trail as the great wolf tugged and dragged the unconscious mage back down the mountainside. Whenever one of the templars high above chanced to look round, he would freeze - with his marbled silver and white pelt he blended into the snow, and snow had steadily gathered on the mage’s body until he looked like just one more snow-covered piece of talus on the slope. Then the templar would look away, and after a few moments Fenris would quietly, steadily tug his burden further and further away from their enemies.

He did not rest until they were back at the overhang; to his surprise, the stones of the cave still radiated warmth from the magical conflagration earlier. He was thankful for the heat as he dragged, tugged and shoved Anders into the shelter; the mage felt like ice to the touch. He would need more than heat outside though; Fenris would have to risk a small fire and try to get something warming into the mage soon.

He eyed the unconscious mage, and shook his head. It would be no easy task to keep the mage alive long enough to heal himself.

 

A few hours later, he felt a little more optimistic. He’d managed to pack boulders and ice around the outside of the overhang to build a more effective shelter, with a doglegged entry that would stop snow from blocking air flow. He’d lit a small fire and that, together with the residual warmth still radiating from the stones, had brought the inside of the shelter to a tolerable temperature. He’d taken advantage of the mage’s unconscious state to set the broken ankle and shin, placing a cloth-wrapped stout stick between the mage’s legs before carefully bandaging the two legs together, painstakingly winding the bandage in a figure-of-eight around his ankles and feet.

He’d dragged out all their meagre supply of blankets - the mage’s grey Warden one with the faded griffon, his own dark woollen one, and a spare blanket Anders had taken from the pack belonging to one of the dead apostates - and wrapped Anders up as warmly as possible.

The apostate had barely stirred through all this, but his face looked a little less ashen now; and Fenris was beginning to have some hopes the mage might survive this after all. His skin still felt like ice however, and Fenris was at a loss as to what further he could do - and from the sounds of the steadily rising wind outside, they were trapped for now by another blizzard. He hoped the others had managed to make it to the Dalish camp; he was certain the Dalish would give no welcome to the templars.

Fenris had dug one of the healing potions out of the mage’s backpack and was wondering how he was going to go about attempting to get its contents into the mage when Anders finally stirred. He glanced over as the apostate blinked slowly then stared at the rock ceiling above him in confusion.

“Mage?”

“Where am I?” Anders slurred, his amber-brown eyes unfocused as he frowned in confusion.

“We are back in the bivouac,” replied Fenris. “How are you feeling?”

“Cold,” murmured Anders. “I can’t move my legs.” He shivered.

“You have broken your right leg and ankle,” replied Fenris. “I have splinted them.”

“Oh,” said Anders in a faintly bemused tone. Fenris shifted closer to him.

“Do you think you could drink this?” he asked, uncorking the healing potion. Anders regarded the bottle and frowned a little again, then nodded. Fenris carefully set the rim of the bottle’s mouth against the apostate’s pale lips then tilted it until the thick, cloying liquid began to pour into Anders’ mouth. Anders grimaced at the unpleasant, bitter taste but dutifully swallowed until the bottle was empty.

“Better?” asked Fenris. Anders nodded.

“A little. S-still cold. T-t-tired. Don’t hurt quite so much though.” He rolled over a little onto his side, closer to the small fire, shivering. “I’ve g-got hypothermia,” he stammered between chattering teeth. “Need some-something warm inside.”

Fenris nodded and set about brewing some tea. As he waited for the water to boil, he regarded the mage with concern. Anders had hunched in upon himself, shivering violently, biting his lip when an incautious movement awakened new pain in his leg.

“When will your magic return?” asked Fenris as he poured the hot water over the dried leaves in the pot and set it to steep. Anders shrugged.

“Hours. Not sure,” he replied tersely. “Lost t-track of t-t-time.”

Fenris poured the tea then brought the steaming cup over to the shivering mage. He helped Anders to sit up, then carefully and slowly he fed the tea to the apostate in small sips. By the time the cup was empty, the mage’s shivers had reduced in intensity and Anders was drowsy, leaning against the elf as his head drooped.

“Mage?” said Fenris softly, but there was no answer.

As the fire slowly died down and the radiant heat from earlier in the day steadily ebbed away, the small cave began to cool down, and Fenris realised he would have to find another way to try and keep the mage warm through the long, cold night ahead. The blizzard that had been threatening all afternoon was now raging in earnest; it would not be safe to set foot outside - on two feet or four.

If there had been space to stand, he would have paced; instead he sat and fidgeted, every so often darting a glance over at the mage who still shivered, even in his sleep.

He knew what the answer had to be. he didn’t like it, and he doubted the mage would have appreciated it any more than he, but it was the only solution.

He stripped off his clothing hurriedly, and then hastily snuggled down inside the blankets with Anders. With deft fingers he undid the mage’s coat and slipped his tatty robes open, then he slid his arms around Anders’ slender torso, biting his lip at how icy to the touch Anders’ skin felt. Then he transformed into his wolf form and nuzzled up close to the unconscious man until he could feel Anders’ heart beating against his own chest, and each soft exhalation of the mage’s breath stirred the fur of Fenris’ throat.

And after a while, as the fire died down, sleep stole quietly over the wolf, even as Anders unconsciously pressed himself closer to the warm beast, tucking his head under Fenris’ chin as the great beast made a faint reassuring sound, rumbling deep in his throat.

The fire died, and the storm raged on.


	7. Chapter 7

Anders drifted slowly back towards consciousness. He smiled drowsily, snuggled into the blankets; for the first time in days he felt warm - actually, properly warm for once, and deeply rested. He was aware of a dull throbbing in his broken leg, but it was at a tolerable level and once his magic returned, it would be a simple thing to fix. He was wrapped in warm blankets, face snuggled into the silkiest softest warm fur, and -

Wait.

_Fur?_

His eyes flew open and he shifted his head. All was dark; the fire had died hours ago and he couldn’t even see his own hand before his face; but he could hear the sounds of another breathing beside himself, and as he reached out a hand that had begun to tremble it touched fur.

Thick, silky, luxurious fur that covered a very much alive and breathing creature. One that was snuggled right up to him inside the blankets. One of its forelegs was wrapped around him, the fur warm against his bare skin -

Bare skin. It was touching his _bare skin._ His questing fingers danced over the front of his jacket and found it had been undone, his thin robes pulled apart, and the beast was nuzzled up against his bare torso, its foreleg pinning him down, and he helpless to move away thanks to his broken leg. He could feel the panic rising inside as he ran a tentative hand down the sleeping beast’s leg and felt the dew claw at the back of the wrist joint, the rough leather pads of the foot, the sharp claws upon each toe.

Oh sweet Maker. It was a wolf. He was pinned down by a _wolf_.

He couldn’t help himself; he screamed in sheer terror, scrabbling at the blankets, trying to push himself as far away from the creature as he could, heedless of the sudden flare of agony in his leg.

He felt the wolf stir, fur brushing his chest as the beast rolled over to sprawl across him, its breath hot upon his face, and he screamed again, and again, and again until the touch of fur receded and it was warm skin pressed against his; skin lit up in a silver blaze as a glowing hand sealed itself across his mouth, effectively silencing him as fierce green eyes glared down into his face.

He shivered uncontrollably, his amber eyes wide, pupils dilated in fear as he trembled beneath Fenris, helpless and terrified. Fenris stared down at him wordlessly for several moments, his expression unreadable as Anders blinked away tears, his breath coming in shuddering gasps.

“Be silent,” whispered Fenris gently. Anders blinked then, hesitantly, nodded. Lifting himself up on one elbow, Fenris slowly and cautiously lifted his hand away from Anders’ mouth, pausing until certain the terrified apostate would remain silent. Then he placed that hand on the ground at the other side of Anders’ head and stared down at him.

“I will not hurt you,” he rumbled quietly. Not trusting himself to speak, Anders merely nodded again, swallowing hard. A tear rolled down his cheek; Fenris lifted a hand to gently wipe it away with his thumb but the mage flinched, turning his face away as he screwed his eyes shut. Fenris huffed almost silently in annoyance, then slid his hand gently into the tousled blond locks.

Anders trembled at his touch, but Fenris ignored it, gently stroking his hand through the apostate’s hair. Over and over, he repeated the simple motion, until Anders’ eyes opened and he stared sightlessly to one side in confusion, slowly relaxing beneath the elf’s hand like a frightened animal. Changing hands, Fenris lightly cupped Anders’ cheek with his palm, gently but firmly turning his head until Anders was forced to look up at Fenris.

“I said I will not harm you,” repeated the elf firmly.

“Let me go,” whispered Anders brokenly. “Please.”

Fenris stared down at him silently, then gently stroked away another tear with his thumb, his expression almost tender. “Do not fear me, mage,” he said softly. Anders’ breath hitched in his throat with a sound very much like a muffled sob, his eyes still wide and panicked.

Fenris frowned. “Mage -” he paused, then went on slowly, “Anders... what makes you fear me so?” He tilted his head to one side, eyeing the apostate anew as a thought occurred to him. “Were you... attacked by a wolf? As a child?”

The use of his name did not pass Anders by unnoticed; his eyebrows lifted a little in surprise, then he nodded a little. Turning his face away from Fenris’ hand, he arched his neck a little, and gestured to a point just beneath his stubbled jaw. “There... do you see?”

Fenris peered closer; he lifted his glowing hand closer so as to better see, and Anders closed his eyes as the elf’s fingers ghosted lightly over his skin until they paused and Fenris saw what Anders meant.

A fine scar ran along his flesh just beneath the line of the jaw, hidden by the short bristly hairs; had Anders not bared his throat to him, he might never have seen it.

“I was ten,” said Anders quietly, eyes still staring off to the side, his voice almost a monotone and so hushed, Fenris had to strain to hear. “It was winter. Food was short; I was supposed to be checking the snares for rabbits. Something had taken them. I went further than I was supposed to. I came across a wolf. I guess it was hungry too.” He fell silent, plucking at his thin robe restlessly. Finally he swallowed hard before continuing. “No-one heard my screams until it was almost too late. It had it’s jaws about my throat. If my father hadn’t arrived just in time....” he closed his eyes and shivered. “I nearly died. I still have nightmares about it sometimes.”

Fenris gently stroked along the line of the scar with his fingertips, his touch featherlight. Anders lay still under his hand.

“You could have stayed in Kirkwall,” said Fenris quietly. “Hawke would have taken the apostates with Merrill; you were already tired - and yet, despite that - despite knowing what I am - you insisted upon coming.” Anders opened his eyes and glanced up at Fenris, curious.

“I could hardly leave Hawke to handle five apostates with just Merrill for help, could I?” he replied.

“Nonetheless, it must have taken courage,” replied Fenris.

“I’m not a coward, despite what you may think,” replied Anders sullenly.

“No indeed,” replied Fenris as he rolled off Anders to lie beside him, leaving his hand resting upon the mage’s pale chest. “I am beginning to think I have been mistaken about you, Anders,” he continued thoughtfully. “About... perhaps many things about you.”

The intimacy of their positions was not lost on Anders, who glanced down at the hand idly stroking his bare skin. A slight flush stole over his face as he felt his body starting to respond to the touch... particularly one certain part of his body.

“Ah... y-you’re probably not as mistaken as a-all that,” he stammered, trying to roll away from the unwanted hand. Fenris merely chuckled as he laid his hand flat against the pale skin then ran his hand lightly up over the contours of the slender mage’s chest, leaving gooseflesh in its wake as he cupped the mage’s cheek again and firmly turned Anders’ face back towards him. Thus forced to face the elf, Anders’ eyes widened as the elf leaned in closer until his breath ghosted warm over Anders’ face, their noses almost touching, amber-brown eyes meeting cool jade-green. Anders made a faint whimpering sound in the back of his throat as Fenris pressed his body against the apostate’s, and suddenly Anders was acutely aware of the elf’s state of complete undress.

“Don’t be afraid,” murmured Fenris.

And then he kissed him.

At first, Anders was stiff with surprise and made some faint sound of protest or alarm. His hands came up to push against Fenris’ chest, but Fenris slipped his hand into the hair at the back of Anders’ head, pulling him closer as he deepened the kiss; and presently he was rewarded as he felt Anders surrender his mouth to the kiss, no longer fighting to pull away as his eyes fluttered closed and he moaned. Slipping his other arm around Anders’ waist, the elf pulled the now-pliant mage against him as he plundered Anders’ mouth with his tongue, tasting him even as he claimed him.

Pulling away from Anders briefly and breaking the kiss, Fenris fisted his hand in Anders’ hair, forcing the mage to bare his throat once more before nipping and kissing his way along that slender white throat as Anders gasped then pushed harder at Fenris’ chest.

“No - not that, please -” Anders’ voice trembled as he protested, and Fenris instantly stopped, releasing the blond hair as he returned to kissing the mage gently in mute apology as he ran his hands down Anders’ torso, caressing his nipples before dipping lower.

“This is too much, too fast,” murmured Anders, swallowing thickly as he felt his body responding to the things Fenris was doing. Fenris nibbled and kissed along the line of his jaw then gently teased an earlobe with his teeth.

“It is cold outside,” Fenris murmured. “We have to keep you warm. Skin to skin - best way,” he added. He began to kiss slowly down Anders’ chest, his hands dipping under the waistband of Anders’ trousers. Anders writhed beneath his touch and then cried out as an incautious movement sent pain flaring up his broken leg.

Instantly, Fenris stopped what he was doing, lifting himself back up again.

“I am sorry, I did not mean to cause you pain,” he said contritely as Anders bit his lip, holding back tears of pain. “Has your mana been restored yet?”

Anders held out a hand and concentrated, trying to call up the power in his hand; a few small sparks flickered upon his fingers then died. He shook his head, disappointed. “No. Not yet.”

The elf gently gathered Anders back into his arms and tugged the blankets back around them both.

“It will return in time. Perhaps we should try and rest a while longer.”

Anders nodded. After a little while, he tucked himself a little closer to the elf, resting his head against Fenris’ chest as the bright fiery light of the lyrium brands died to a glimmer then faded.

He was drifting in that half-conscious drowsy state just before true sleep when he felt Fenris shift restlessly and stretch, and then the smooth skin beneath his cheek was replaced by soft, silken fur. This time, he was too far gone towards dreams for panic to stir him.

Eyes closed, he slipped away into the Fade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's an illustration up on deviantART now or this fic; you can find it here:
> 
> http://arkadyrose.deviantart.com/art/De-Intus-Lupus-6-284007803


	8. Chapter 8

It was the wolf who awakened first. His inner time sense told him dawn had passed some time ago, but the cave was dark and still. What little light managed to enter the cave from his carefully-crafted doorway was indirect, reflected off white snow and bare rock.

He lifted his head and glanced down at the mage, who was curled up in the blankets, face snuggled into the soft fur of his flank. He gently nosed Anders’ cheek and was reassured by its warm feel. Anders made a faint noise of protest at the cold touch of the lupine nose and pressed his face into the soft silver fur, hunching into his feathered jacket.

He lay like that for some time, merely watching the mage sleep, unwilling to move and risk waking him. But finally he nudged Anders’ shoulder with his nose. If Anders’ magic had returned, he would need to heal himself. And if not... well, there was another healing potion in the backpack. And in any rate, if they had to stay here any longer then Fenris would need to find firewood and food for them both... and he had no idea if the templars were still about.

He nudged Anders again, and this time the mage stirred a little. A sly wolf-grin crossed Fenris’ face as a mischievous thought came to him. He pushed his long nose into the back of Anders’ wide collar, down to the nape of the mage’s neck, and whuffled into his hair.

Anders jerked, his eyes fluttering open as he cringed away. His fingers reflexively curled tighter into the fur of Fenris’ flank and then, just as swiftly, recoiled as though the silver pelt were red-hot. He gasped, and the wolf felt a tremor run through the slender apostate.

In an instant, Fenris turned and shifted, the silver fur rippling then flowing away across his skin as bones shifted, muscle rearranged itself beneath the lyrium-branded flesh and he was once more the familiar elf, curling about the shaken mage. He sat up and drew Anders into his arms as he gently stroked his face and hair, murmuring soothing noises.

“Hush, you’re safe,” he whispered as Anders stared at the elf’s skin in disbelief. As Fenris watched, he reached out and began to slowly run one hand along Fenris’ arm. The elf stilled with a faint hiss of indrawn breath, and Anders instantly froze, his hand halting its tentative movement over the smooth white markings branded into the dusky flesh. Then he snatched his hand back and began to stammer an apology.

“I-I’m sorry... your markings, I forgot you - you don’t like them being touched, I -”

“Hush,” repeated Fenris quietly as he enfolded the mage in his arms and held him gently. “You merely...startled me. I was not expecting you to touch me.” He nuzzled the blond hair that had come loose from its customary hair tie, then lightly kissed Anders upon the cheek. “I should not have awakened you whilst in my wolf form. It was thoughtless of me.”

Anders lay quiescent in his arms, eyes distant. After a moment he glanced down at his hand, his expression becoming thoughtful. His brow furrowed a little in concentration as he flexed his fingers, and then his face cleared and he smiled as bright sparks of blue light crackled and danced over his outstretched fingers. “My magic’s back!” he laughed, and he glanced up at Fenris. His joy was contagious, it seemed, for despite his innate distrust of magic the elf found himself returning Anders’ smile in spite of himself.

Fenris reached down and tugged away the blankets to reveal Anders’ legs, splinted and bound together with bandaged from knees to ankles. Anders stared down at his legs and his smile slipped. Then calling the magic up into his hands, he pressed them both to his right thigh and closed his eyes as he slipped his senses down into his own body with the magic.

He reached down into the limb, drawn to where his body’s defences were already at work repairing the broken tibia; he directed the healing magic there first, knitting back together the broken ends of bone, triggering the generation of more osteoblasts to rebuild and strengthen it before following on down the limb to the shattered ankle.

This repair was more complicated; Fenris had set the ankle as straight as he could, but the joint was still a mess with shards and fragments of bone out of alignment. This was going to hurt.

Gritting his teeth, he began to shift the bone fragments back into their proper places, realigning them and then knitting them back together as he directed more osteoblasts here to rebuild the bone. He gasped, sweat standing out on his forehead as the bone shards shifted and moved.

“Mage?” said Fenris quietly; Anders shook his head, for the moment incapable of speech. Eyes still closed, mind still focused within, he deftly wove sinew and regrew tendons, rebuilding his ankle from the core outwards until finally it was whole and strong once more.

He slumped against Fenris as he lifted a trembling hand to his forehead, and channeled a little healing to dispel the last lingering effects of the fall there, and then his hand fell away as his head drooped.

Fenris cradled him gently. “Anders?”

“Guess I was more drained than I thought,” the mage slurred. “Tired.”

Fenris gently laid him down and covered him with the blankets, then swiftly he donned his clothing and armour once more before crouching down over the drowsy man.

“Get some rest,” he said quietly, patting Anders’ shoulder.

“Where are you going?” Anders asked, glancing up.

“Not far,” replied Fenris. “We need more firewood. I shall be back shortly.”

Anders nodded and hunched into the blankets.

With one last glance back, Fenris ducked out through the twisted entrance. Between one step and the next he dropped to all fours as he shifted into wolf form then loped away.

He headed down the mountain first, in search of firewood, making several trips back and forth until there was sufficient wood for a good blaze, and a stack of further kindling against later need. Then after a last glance at the sleeping mage, he set off again.

He looped round in a large roundabout circle until he picked up the trail of the second templar party; their trail had been all but obliterated by the blizzard, but he could still follow the scent of lyrium and sword oil, and in places they’d left fixed ropes; where necessary, he shifted briefly back onto two legs where an elf could climb but a wolf could not, switching back to the warmer, furred form once back on the trail again. In this way, he covered the ground far faster than the heavily armoured templars had, and it didn’t take long until he reached the plateau.

Snow had fallen since the earlier battle; it blanketed a new cairn or stones raised hastily over the apostate who had fallen in that fight. Fenris traced and retraced the footsteps from that fight by scent. He could pick out the light fresh earthy scent of Merrill, overlaid with the harsh coppery tang of blood where she’d used blood magic. There, the musky scent of Varric - strongest in the spot where he had stood guard over the last two apostates as Bianca spat death at their oncoming foe. Here, dancing across the hard ground - the fierce bright scent of Hawke, a fellow predator in some ways. And there, on the edge, cutting off so suddenly - the delicate hint of lyrium, herbs and meadow-sweet hay that whispered Anders so evocatively.

The group had departed the plateau, the templars following shortly after; and the wol pressed on, nose to the snow, following the invisible trail through the smooth, crisp, even snow that obliterated all other traces. The trail led on up the mountain then cut across to the pass that led to the Dalish encampment - and there in the pass he finally found the signs of combat he’d been expecting.

Dead templars lay scattered around; some had died by Hawke’s blade, some by Bianca’s bolts; three were charred and twisted corpses that still reeked of the tang of magic. Two sported arrows of Dalish design - ah, then aid had come to the fugitives. Hmm, but the fight was not without cost - here, a dull rust-coloured stain upon the ground in a sheltered spot where snow had not yet drifted - the dwarf had taken a wound.

Nose to the ground, Fenris ran on, following the hours-old trail towards the Dalish encampment until the pass opened out into the familiar clearing - and there, the Dalish aravels drawn up into the long-established camp.

He trotted towards the camp, ears pricked as he sniffed the air. Yes, he could catch the scent of Hawke, Varric and Merrill! They had reached safety! He needed to -

Something hit him hard in the side, driving the breath from his body. He staggered, and glanced at his right flank as pain suddenly blossomed between his ribs. A Dalish arrow bristled from his side, and dark crimson blood had already begun to stain the silver fur.

A Dalish hunter strode into view, already putting another arrow to his string as he eyed the wolf warily. He called something in Dalish to another hunter who stepped out to join him, drawing a long-bladed knife. The first hunter raised the bow, and Fenris backed away, shaking his head.

 _No. No threat to you. Don’t shoot!_ Voiceless in this form, he could only retreat. He meant no harm to them, couldn’t they see that? He damned his own foolishness in having approached the camp so visibly in wolf form.

The hunter let the second arrow fly as Fenris turned to flee, and he yelped as the second arrow lodged in his right hindleg, just below the hip.

Limping badly, he fled, the two hunters in pursuit.


	9. Chapter 9

Merrill tossed an apple over to Hawke who caught it deftly with one hand then pulled out his belt knife and began carving off neat slices.

“What do you suppose has happened to Fenris?” she mused quietly as she dropped down to sit upon the floor of the aravel, folding her slender legs as she tossed another apple up to Varric, producing a third from her tunic which she bit into. They were golden-skinned and slightly wrinkled from winter storage, but still sweet and good.

“I don’t know, Daisy,” sighed Varric. “Nothing good I’ll bet. We’ve been here two days now, and no sign of him or Blondie.” He shook his head sadly. “I think we’re going to have to accept they’re both gone.”

“No, that can’t be true!” cried Merrill as Hawke straightened and made a sound of denial.

“We have to face facts!” argued the dwarf, shaking his head. “If they made it we’d have seen some sign of them by now! Fenris at least would have made it back if he could. They were caught out two nights in a blizzard, and they just... didn’t make it,” his voice tailed off, and he lowered his head.

Merrill regarded him with wide eyes which slowly filled with tears. “You really believe that, don’t you? That they’re not coming back? That they’re...” Her voice hitched and wavered. “That they’re dead?” The tears began to roll down her cheeks.

“I don’t believe it,” Hawke insisted stubbornly. “I won’t believe it till I see the bodies for myself.”

Whatever else he might have said was interrupted as a sudden hubbub of voices rose outside the aravel, with many elvhen voices raised in excitement.

“What in the name of Andraste’s sacred arse is all that about?” wondered Hawke. Merrill frowned, wiping her eyes as she listened.

“It’s the hunters,” she said as she pushed herself up to her feet and stepped closer to the door. “Something about a strange wolf.”

“What’s strange about a wolf?” wondered Hawke, following. Varric climbed down off the low bed, swinging his right arm and rubbing his shoulder with a grimace as he followed. The Keeper, Marethari, had healed the templar’s sword wound that had nearly put him out of commission for good, but it was still prone to the odd painful twinge. He followed the slender elf mage and the warrior out of the aravel to see what was going on.

Several elvhen hunters were gesturing back towards the mountain pass, whilst others were gesticulating wildly in clearly negative emphasis as they shouted. Hawke had picked up a few words of the Dalish tongue from Merrill but not enough to follow what was going on.

“What is it? What are they all worked up over?” he asked her as they stood side by side and stared at the confrontation.

“Something about a wolf - a silver wolf that behaved strangely,” she replied, her tone one of bewilderment. She turned to one of the nearby hunters and asked him something; he replied in a dark tone, shaking his head and gesturing at the dark-haired hunter who was pointing towards the pass.

“He says that Kuriel saw the silver wolf walking towards the camp quite unafraid. He shot it and it backed away from him, shaking its head.” She murmured something to the hunter and he nodded, gesturing back at the pass, then said something else as he made a firm negatory gesture with his hands. Merrill turned back to Hawke. “Daruviel says Kuriel shot the wolf again in the leg, and it ran away, back towards the pass. Now Kuriel wants to take the hunters and follow it, but some of the hunters including Daruviel think it will bring great misfortune on us if they kill the wolf. They think it must be a werewolf, and they are afraid it will lead to conflict between the Dalish and the werewolves.”

“It certainly doesn’t sound like the normal behaviour of any wolf I’ve ever encountered,” Hawke said thoughtfully. “Can Daruviel show us where Kuriel’s arrows hit it?”

Merrill glanced at the red-headed elf who nodded. Hawke blinked. “You can understand me?”

Daruviel nodded then said something to Merrill, who coloured. Hawke caught the word “shem” and sighed.

“Let me guess; he won’t lower himself to speaking the shemlen tongue?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. Daruviel nodded slowly, then turned and deliberately spat on the ground near Hawke’s feet before muttering something to Merrill.

“I, ah, don’t think I should tell you what he just said,” she said uncomfortably.

“I can probably guess,” replied Hawke drily. “Come on, let’s see the spot.”

 

Pain lanced through his side with every breath, agony stabbing a counterpart every time his right hind-leg moved. He limped on without a whimper however, the only sound that of his claws scrabbling on rock or punching through the crisp snow as his breath rasped, labouring as he moved on.

It rankled to flee like this, but he had little choice. Had he been alone, he would have turned on those elves - shifted into his towering half-wolf form, torn out their damnable arrows and healed the wounds even as he ripped out their throats in vengeance.

But he wasn’t alone, and nor were they; their cries had brought more hunters, and whilst he could take down two puny Dalish hunters alone, he had less confidence in his ability to take down the entire camp. And he had Anders to worry about. Anders was still weak and recovering from the fall and the bout of hypothermia, and he had left him sleeping alone and unprotected. What if more templars came? Or some wild creature such as a bear? What if another blizzard blew up, and he no longer there to tend the fire and keep him safe and warm?

And so he had fled, in pain, bleeding, every footfall agony as the arrowheads grated against bone.

He could feel himself weakening; it was growing harder to breath, and every now and then a cough racked his body. He could taste blood in the froth that flecked his jaws, his tongue lolling as he pushed himself on.

A clattering sound distracted him; he glanced to his left and then flinched as another arrow glanced off the stone by his feet. He doglegged right, then left, then flung himself down a steep incline, his paws scrabbling unsuccessfully for purchase on the sheer talus slope, sending scree and larger rocks down in a small avalanche that rumbled alarmingly loud in the chill mountain air. He couldn’t get a purchase with his feet and suddenly the whole face seemed on the move beneath him and he fell heavily onto his left side as his paws were swept out from beneath him.

He was sliding, falling, tumbling; paws scrabbling desperately for purchase that wouldn’t come - reaching, shifting, twisting, screaming as rocks tumbled around him, across him, striking the arrows and gouging the shafts deeper within his flesh before the wooden shafts snapped clean away, leaving cold hard pain lodged in his hip, beneath his ribs, thrusting yet deeper into his broken form as rocks pounded his body.

His last conscious thought was to fling an arm up across his face and then his head struck an outcrop of stone and everything mercifully went dark.

 

Anders stirred as a stray breeze snaked around the entrance and gently tickled the back of his neck. His eyes opened slowly and he lay still for a little while, letting his eyes adjust to the dark. 

“Fenris?” he asked quietly, but there was no answer. He pushed back the blankets and levered himself up on his elbows to glance round, but he was alone in the small cave. In the gloom he could dimly make out the shapes of stacked wood and a laid fire, ready and waiting for the flame. He gestured, and the fire crackled into life, lighting up the small cave with its cheery brightness.

He sat up properly and began to unwrap the bandages from his legs, stripping the cloth away and then, through force of habit, neatly rolling the cloth and bandages up again before he tossed the stick Fenris had used as a splint onto the nearby stack of firewood. He stretched his legs and then carefully flexed his ankle, rotating it, testing the movement and functionality.

All seemed to have healed well, and he no longer felt the crushing enervation that had plagued him since the templar had used his smite upon him. He leaned back, resting his weight upon his hands as he glanced around the cave and wondered what to do next. He was fully rested, and further sleep seemed a waste of time. The elf had taken care of his needs by leaving a decent pile of firewood, but the prospect of sitting tamely feeding sticks to the fire until Fenris should return didn’t much appeal either.

And where _was_ the elf, anyway? He’d said he was merely going to fetch firewood; but he’d done that and yet still hadn’t reappeared. Anders couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.

He huffed and rolled over onto his stomach on the pile of blankets, resting his head upon his folded arms. What did he care if the elf got himself into trouble? What did the crazy werewolf mean to him anyway? He seemed to delight in petrifying him, taking unfair advantage of his very real terror of wolves to - to maul, elf-handle him, paw at his nearly naked body....

His mind wandered back to the sensation of the elf’s hands running over his body and he rolled over onto his back as he closed his eyes, one hand drifting to the base of his throat as he recalled the feeling of the elf’s hands stroking across his skin, their touch warm, arousing. Unconsciously his hand followed the path that dusky lyrium-branded fingers had traced, down over the flat of his stomach. Lower. He caught his lower lip between his teeth and moaned quietly.

Justice stirred, expressing disapproval, and Anders’ eyes flew open as a blush stole across his cheeks. Damn the spirit and his timing.

Sitting up, he straightened out his clothing, then folded up the blankets and stowed them in his backpack. He glanced at the elf’s pack and idly wondered just what the elf did with it when in wolf form - or, come to that, his clothes. They seemed to change when he changed; perhaps it was all part of the magic. He shrugged and resolved to ask the elf about it when he found him.

He gestured, and the fire was instantly extinguished; no sense in wasting good firewood - they might need the shelter again. 

The bright sunshine momentarily blinded him as he stepped out of the cave entrance and looked round. He blinked hard, slinging his pack onto his back then fumbling with the belts and straps on his coat to fasten it against the cold. Then he started out up towards the plateau, guessing that would be as good as any place to start.

About a hundred feet or so from the foot of the talus slope, he heard an ominous rumbling sound followed by shouts from somewhere up beyond the plateau; looking up he could see that the whole slope seemed to be steadily shifting downwards in a roaring rush of rocks, gravel, dirt, snow and dust. He thought he caught a glimpse of something towards the centre of the avalanche as he sprinted to the side out of the path of the cascading detritus. Something white... No, it couldn’t be....

He heard a scream above the roar of the rocks, and instantly he was diving forward even before the mass of rocks had fully come to a halt, throwing up a hasty shield about himself as he leapt from rock to rock over the unstable surface, flinging himself heedlessly on towards the crumpled form half-buried within the rock slide.

He dropped to his knees and reached out a hand to the dishevelled, blood-streaked white hair, brushing it back out of the bruised and bloodied pale face. Blood flecked the white lips, and Fenris’ breathing was harsh and laboured. Anders brushed stones and gravel off the unconscious elf’s chest and his heart sank as he saw the bloody arrow wound beneath the elf’s ribs on the right side.

“Step away, _shemlen_!” called a voice. Anders looked up to see a Dalish hunter standing at the plateau’s edge, an arrow nocked on the string and pointing at Fenris’ heart. “The werewolf must die before it brings its curse on my people!”

“Over my dead body,” growled Anders.

The elf shrugged. “So be it.”

The arrow flew from the bow.


	10. Chapter 10

Anders narrowed his eyes and gestured dismissively, and the arrow shattered harmlessly against an invisible shield. The blond apostate cocked his head to one side and raised an eyebrow at the Dalish hunter.

“That the best you can do?” he sneered as he stood up and tugged the hem of his jacket straight. He inspected the nails of his right hand thoughtfully, then slowly smiled as he straightened his fingers one at a time, blue-white sparks of electricity dancing over his fingertips.

“My turn.”

He flung his arm out suddenly, gesturing flamboyantly as the raven-haired elf drew a pair of blades and leapt down towards him. The lightning bolt struck the elf square in the chest, and he convulsed in agony as he fell towards the talus slope, back arching as he screamed. He skidded several feet across the loose scree surface, sending rocks and stones scattering down the slope towards the mage and the unconscious werewolf. Anders casually threw up another shield as he gathered power for another spell.

But the Dalish was made of sterner stuff than the mage had accounted for; he recovered swiftly and was up on his feet again in moments, and advancing towards the apostate with a murderous gleam in his eyes.

Anders closed his eyes briefly as he channelled the mana into a fire spell. It was harder without his staff to focus the power through; everything took that little extra effort, more concentration to direct. He murmured the words softly to himself as he wove the spell, flames wreathing his hands as he opened his eyes and unleashed the fireball directly at the Dalish hunter’s tattooed chest as he lurched to a halt too late to avoid the blast.

The apostate recoiled a little as the stench of burning flesh wafted back over him, but raised his hands ready to cast again though already the toll of casting was telling on him, draining him steadily. He had no choice however; somehow, the elf was still moving. He’d retained his grasp upon his sword and though gravely injured, his face and chest a horrendous mask of red raw flesh and charred black skin, still he lunged for the mage even as Anders gestured and encased his legs in ice.

Near exhausted, Anders dropped to his knees beside Fenris, even as the Dalish elf screamed in mingled agony and frustration. The ice spell would only hold the elf for so long, and the mage was running low on energy. Yet as the elf fought to free himself from the ice, Anders reached inside himself for the power for one last spell. He raised his hands....

And blinked dully in surprise as the elf shuddered and then slumped, two crossbow bolts protruding from the gory remains of his chest. Anders lifted his gaze beyond and stared at Varric, whose expression mirrored his own.

“Blondie, you’re one hell of a sight for sore eyes,” the dwarf exclaimed as he stomped along the margin of the talus field towards the apostate, Hawke and Merrill picking their way cautiously over the unstable slope behind him.

Anders blinked, then abruptly slumped as the adrenaline and exhaustion caught up to him all at once.

“Anders, you’re alive! Thank the Maker,” breathed Hawke as he hurried past Varric to drop to his knees and pull the slender apostate into a bear hug. Anders submitted without complaint, letting his head drop to rest against the warrior’s shoulder. Merrill grinned and clapped her hands delightedly with a little squeal.

“You see Varric? Hawke was right - they’re both alive! They’re OK!” She bounced excitedly then stumbled on the uneven surface.

“Yeah yeah, Daisy, Hawke was right and I was wrong,” Varric groused good-naturedly as he helped her back up. “Watch your footing there, you could set the whole lot sliding if you’re not careful.”

Anders was oblivious to their chatter; he allowed Hawke to hold him for a few moments before he reluctantly pulled away. “Fenris,” he murmured quietly. Hawke glanced down at the white-haired elf, and then muttered an oath under his breath as Anders crawled back to the elf’s side and reached out a hand to gently stroke his pale cheek. Then drawing a deep breath, Anders laid his hands upon Fenris’ barely-stirring breast and closed his eyes, letting the magic flow down into the broken body before him and carrying his senses with it.

After a moment, he began to speak as he felt his way through the elf’s body, his voice clinical and detatched. “Arrowhead lodged in the right lung, penetrated up from beneath the bottom rib. Lung filling with blood. Spinal trauma. Ruptured spleen.” He tilted his head slightly as he paused, then went on. “Second arrowhead embedded in right thigh, trauma to femur. Left femur fibula and tibia broken. Crush damage to left foot.” He turned his head blindly towards Fenris’ face. “Basilar fracture of the skull... posterior... left occipital....” His eyes opened and he stared down at Fenris’ face as he began fumbling through his belt pouches. “Lyrium.... I’m going to need lyrium,” he muttered.

“The arrowheads are going to have to come out,” said Hawke quietly. Anders nodded as he pulled out a small blue vial. “I’m going to stabilise him as best I can before we try to move him,” he replied as he uncorked it, then he knocked back the draught swiftly. Pooling mana in his hands, he cradled Fenris’ unconscious face between his palms then closed his eyes as he sent healing magic surging through the elf’s body.

As the mage worked silently on the elf, Varric slung Bianca back in place across his back and knelt down on the opposite side of the elf. He began to slowly, carefully dig the rocks and loose shale away from around Fenris’ limp form. After a moment, Hawke began to do the same as Merrill crept to Anders’ side and quietly laid his staff on the ground beside him before digging out two more vials of lyrium from her own pouches. She watched him intently as he worked, and when his energy started to flag she was ready, pushing an opened vial into his hand. He downed it without opening his eyes, plunging straight back into the work of healing.

Finally he let his hands fall. “I’ve done all I can for now,” he said wearily. “He’s as stable as I can make him, but we need to get him somewhere safe so that I can remove the arrowheads and finish the healing.”

“We’ll take him up to the Dalish camp,” said Merrill.

“What? Are you mad?” exclaimed Anders. “It was a Dalish elf who was doing his damnedest to kill Fenris, in case you’d missed that bit! What makes you think they’ll welcome him in - particularly after we killed one of their hunters?”

“He’s kinda got a point there, Daisy,” agreed Varric. “Opinion seemed to be pretty much divided back there - half those hunters were ready to charge off after Kuriel’s brother there -” he jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the Dalish elf corpse, “- whilst the other half wanted nothing to do with it. What are they going to think when we walk back in there with a wounded elf and then dig a couple of Dalish arrowheads out of him?”

“Wait a minute,” interrupted Hawke. “Kuriel’s brother shoots at a wolf then takes off after it, claiming it’s a werewolf. Then does his best to kill Fenris, who happens to coincidentally have a couple of Dalish arrows in him? Am I missing something here? Since when is Fenris a werewolf?”

“Since long before he came to Kirkwall,” replied Anders quietly.

“You knew?” said Hawke incredulously. He nodded, not looking up as he set about dressing the arrow wounds and bandaging the unconscious elf.

“How long?” asked Hawke quietly. Anders frowned as he tried to work it out, counting upon his fingers.

“I... I’m not sure,” he said slowly. “I’m not sure how long I was unconscious... three? four days, maybe? Since the night we stayed in the cave on the beach on the Wounded Coast with those people we rescued from the slavers.”

“Where that brown-haired girl took a shine to you?” asked Varric. Anders nodded.

“A big silver wolf killed the slaver who grabbed her. I thought it was going to go for the girl at first, so I - I hit it with my staff.” He fingered his own cheek, eyes distant. “Then it went for the slaver, and I took the girl and ran. When Fenris came out of the forest behind us, he still had the slaver’s blood on his hands and face... and a bruise on his cheek.” He glanced up. “Where I’d hit him. That’s when I knew.”

Varric gave a long, low whistle. “Well I’ll be a nug’s uncle... so _that’s_ what’s been going on between you two? You knew, and he knew you knew - that sort of thing?”

Anders nodded. “And he worked out that I’m afraid of wolves,” he added softly.

“So that’s why you don’t like Dog?” guessed Hawke.

Anders nodded again.

“Well, that explains a lot,” remarked Varric. “But we’re still no nearer to deciding what to do. There’s no way we’ll make it down off this mountain with Broody before nightfall, and I don’t rate his chances if Blondie has to operate on him in a tent or cave somewhere. It seems we don’t have a lot of choice.”

“Varric’s right,” said Hawke. “We’ve got to try the Dalish.”

“I’ll talk to the Keeper,” Merrill said quietly. “I know she’ll listen to me.”

“Anders?” asked Hawke as the apostate stared at his hands. Anders shrugged.

They carefully wrapped Fenris warmly in blankets, then laid him on another blanket and between the four of them, slowly and steadily made their way back up the mountain towards the pass that led to the Dalish camp.

“One thing I don’t understand, Anders,” said Hawke as they made their way through the pass. “Justice.”

“What about him?” asked Anders warily.

“You were exhausted, just about ready to drop when we showed up. Why didn’t he appear? He would have wiped the floor with that Dalish hunter without breaking a sweat!”

“Justice... does not approve of Fenris,” replied Anders. “Even though he saved my life. He thinks he is a... dangerous distraction.”

Hawke stumbled, distracted, as he stared at the mage who was staring down at Fenris with an odd, almost wistful look. From behind Varric chuckled. “Oh-ho, do I detect a little frisson in the air between a certain mage-hating elf and a certain wanted apostate?”

“It’s not like that!” protested Anders, glancing back over his shoulder at the elf.

“Oh? Then what is it like?” asked Hawke in a pointed tone. Anders glanced at him, his expression flustered as a blush crept slowly up his collar.

“He saved me. I’m grateful to him for that. It’s... that’s all there is. Nothing more than that.” He glanced away, his eyes troubled.

“I think it’s very sweet,” Merrill remarked to no-one in particular. Anders’ face went even redder.

As they emerged from the pass, Hawke lifted his gaze to the aravels ahead, and he slowed down. The others, forced to slow with him, lifted their heads to follow his gaze, and beside him Anders groaned. “This does not look good,” he muttered to Hawke, and the others had to agree with him.

A group of Dalish hunters stood waiting for them, armed and ready. They stared at the group with open hostility, and Kuriel the dark-haired hunter stepped forward and deliberately spat onto the ground towards them. Then he pointed at their burden.

“You carry a cause of enmity between us, Hawke,” he called in a challenging tone.

“Funny,” said Hawke. “I thought we were carrying our friend.”

There was a scattered muttering from the other hunters and Kuriel scowled. “Leave the werewolf here and you may depart in peace.”

Hawke motioned to the others to lay Fenris down as he lowered his corner of the blanket to the ground. Anders stared at him with frantic eyes as he crouched next to the unconscious elf. “Hawke, what do you think you’re doing?” he hissed. “You can’t give him up to them - I won’t -”

Hawke smiled and winked at him, then stood and turned to face the hunters as he unslung his greatsword.

“You want him?” he called, and grinned unpleasantly. “Come and get him.”

The others lined up beside Hawke.

“This... is going to get messy,” remarked Varric quietly.

“Oh yeah,” grinned Hawke.


	11. Chapter 11

Merrill unslung Anders’ staff from her back and passed it to him wordlessly before unslinging her own; he took it with a nod of thanks, glad to have it back in his hands once more. Both mages called up power into shimmering balls of fire that snaked around their upraised hands like sinuous, glowing things, flames dancing and flickering over the mages’ skin, the air above them wavering with heat shimmer in the cool mountain air. Hawke stood between them, smiling sinisterly as he beckoned the hunters forward. Behind them, the dwarf stood sentinel over the unconscious elf.

The Dalish elves looked at each other uncertainly.

“What are you waiting for?” snarled Kuriel. “There are only four of them!”

“It’s the Champion,” murmured one of the others.

“He brought us Feynriel,” argued another. “The lad’s like a sister’s son to me now, I can’t go against his saviour!”

“He has the favour of Asha’bellanar,” added a third, others nodding agreement.

Kuriel turned on them in fury. “Are you all spineless dogs, that you would cower before a mere _shemlen_?” he spat in disgust.

“Wise is he who keeps the friendship of one favoured by Asha’bellanar,” said a soft lilting voice from behind the hunters, who parted and drew back as the Keeper Marethari approached, her gaze fixed upon Kuriel. “And foolish indeed is he who sets himself against superior forces. Kuriel, you would pledge yourself to a conflict you cannot hope to win.”

The other hunters slowly began to back away as Kuriel turned to confront Marethari. “Keeper, they harbour a werewolf! Once more, _that one_ -” he spun and jabbed an accusatory finger at Merrill, who gasped, “- would bring taint among us!”

“The Champion’s companion is no threat to the Dalish,” replied Marethari calmly. “He is certainly no cause for you to throw your life away over. We must mourn your brother Tolwen - must we also be lessened by your loss to this foolishness, Kuriel?”

“T-Tolwen?” stammered Kuriel, the colour draining from his face as the sword dropped from his hand. “Keeper, no, please -”

Her eyes held a world of sympathy for him as she regarded him in silence. Kuriel clutched his head and cried out, a wordless utterance of pain; gently, Marethari drew him to her and embraced him as he wept.

Forgotten behind him, Anders let the magic go, shaking off the last vestiges of the flames as he lowered his staff; Merrill had already dropped her spell at the sound of the Keeper’s voice. Anders flinched visibly as Kuriel cried out his grief, then turned away. Varric patted him awkwardly on one feathered shoulder as he dropped to his knees beside Fenris. He reached out for the elf’s hand and held it between his own, staring down at the silvery-white lines of lyrium branded into the skin.

“Anders?” murmured Hawke as he sheathed his blade.

“I’m fine,” Anders responded dully.

Varric snorted. “Sure you are, Blondie; and I’m a nug’s uncle.”

“I can see the resemblance,” he responded, though his heart wasn’t really in the banter. He was cold, exhausted, hungry and he still had yet to deal with the rest of Fenris’ wounds. He just wanted the day to be over, to curl up in a decent bed, to be warm, fed, safe, and able to sleep for once without fear of templars or mad Dalish hunters or wolves or anything else. Just for one night.

“Blondie.” He realised Varric had been trying to attract his attention for some minutes, he raised his head and blinked; the Keeper Marethari was kneeling opposite him and looking at him sympathetically across Fenris’ body.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. She gave him a sad smile.

“You have had a long, hard journey, young man. Come. I will treat and heal your friend, so you may go and rest. I will have food sent to the guest aravel for you all.” She gestured to him to rise.

“No - I mean, thank you, I -” He ran a hand through his hair, suddenly all too acutely aware of how exhausted he was. “I can heal him, I-”

“Anders.” Hawke laid a hand on his other shoulder, then bent down and hauled the mage to his feet, steadying him when he swayed. “You’re nearly dead on your feet. Let the Keeper and her people heal Fenris. You’ve done enough for one day.”

“I know,” murmured Anders, thinking of Kuriel and his brother.

He did not argue further but instead let Hawke lead him away as the Keeper gestured to her assistants who gathered up the unconscious Fenris and bore him away. Anders watched until they had disappeared between the aravels, then let his gaze fall to the ground, trusting to Hawke to guide him.

He stumbled as he climbed the steps to the aravel, Hawke’s hand instantly at his elbow to catch him. He grunted thanks, and made straight for the nearest bed, dropping his pack and Fenris’ on the ground before leaning his staff against the wall before dropping onto the bed. It was a simple low cot; it had been built for an elf, and with his taller frame Anders’ feet dangled over the end of the bed but he didn’t care. It was soft, and clean, and it meant he didn’t have to move any further.

He was asleep in minutes.

 

Fenris stirred. He could hear low voices, murmuring words he couldn’t quite understand. There was a strange, metallic taste in his mouth; he recognised the lingering touch of magic, the familiar faint buzz in his skin, tingling and itching where the lyrium responded to its kiss. He lay still, trying to work out where he was. The magic felt... different, somehow; he knew on some innate level that it wasn’t Anders’ doing.

“Ah, so you have returned to us, child,” lilted a soft gentle voice. The Keeper. He opened his eyes and glanced up at her as she leaned over him.

“Where -” he began, voice husky and rough.

“You are in the camp of our people upon Sundermount. Your companions and the Champion are nearby and resting, and when you are ready you may return to them,” she answered placidly.

He levered himself up on his elbows and stared down at his body, lifting a hand to trace his fingers over where the first arrow had lodged in his lung, The skin was smooth, only a circular ripple in the skin betraying where it had been.

“You were gravely injured,” remarked Marethari. “We feared for a little while that we might lose you, but your companion, the blond mage, is a talented healer and had dealt with the worst of your wounds.”

“Where is he?” asked Fenris as he sat up and glanced around for his clothes. He could hardly go wandering off through the Dalish encampment in just his smallclothes.

“He is sleeping still,” replied Marethari as a young male elf with his auburn hair in braids brought over his clothing, neatly folded, and presented it to the white-haired warrior. “Trevaryn here will show you to him when you are dressed. Food will be brought to you all shortly.”

“I... thank you,” replied Fenris quietly as he accepted his clothes with a nod.

The Keeper and her assistant left him to dress. When he emerged from behind the curtained door of the aravel shortly after, Trevaryn was waiting for him.

“This way,” the auburn-haired elf indicated with a jerk of his head before setting off, not looking back to see if he was following. Fenris tagged along behind, glancing about himself curiously as they made their way between the aravels. He was aware of eyes watching him, whispers from doorways. He was aware of an undercurrent of tension around him, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling uncomfortably. He caught the sour scent of fear on the air, both from the elf leading him and from others.

“Is there something wrong?” he asked politely.

“Many think you should not have been allowed into the camp,” replied Trevaryn, not glancing round.

“I thought the Champion was regarded as a friend to the Dalish?”

Trevaryn paused and glanced at him, a cold look in his grey eyes. “The Champion, yes. _You_ however are another matter.” He turned and walked on.

“Have I somehow caused offense to the Dalish?” asked Fenris cautiously, a chill running down his spine as he began to notice hostile stares being directed towards him. Trevaryn suddenly stopped and span on his heel to glare at him.

“Because of you, Tolwen is dead! The Keeper may welcome your kind, but you will find few other friends amongst the Dalish! You are accursed, werewolf, and the sooner you are gone from here the better!”

Fenris regarded him silently, his expression neutral. After a few minutes in which Trevaryn glared at him in open hostility, Fenris clenched his hands into fists and then deliberately relaxed them.

“I cannot help what I am,” he said quietly. “Do you truly think I would choose this of my own free will?”

“You should not have come!” insisted Trevaryn. “You and all your kind are abominations that taint everything you touch! You would spread your filthy taint to our people!”

Fenris recoiled. “I... an abomination?” he whispered. “I... _I_ taint everything?” He was stunned. Had he not thrown those words at the mage on more than one occasion? Had he not used that very same tone of voice, dripping with venomous derision?

Had Anders felt this same empty void within himself as he sought for words to defend his very existence?

“I will find my own way from here,” he murmured quietly as he walked past the Keeper’s assistant.

He was even more acutely aware of the stares, more open now as elves came to the doors of their aravels or paused their conversations to turn and watch him silently as he passed. Some merely stared in open curiosity, whilst others were clearly hostile. He followed the scent of Hawke and the others to a smaller aravel on the outskirts of the camp and approached it thankfully.

He paused at the foot of the stairs leading up into the aravel. A dark-haired Dalish hunter sat waiting on the top step; his eyes were red-rimmed, and as Fenris glanced up at him he recognised him with a shock as being the elf who had shot him. Kuriel lifted his head and glared at him as he rose to his feet.

“You!” hissed the elf, stalking slowly down the steps towards him. “You are the reason my brother is dead!”

“Your brother was Tolwen,” guessed Fenris. “I did not kill him. He tried to kill me.”

“He is dead because of _you_!” insisted Kuriel. “Murderer!”

“I have no quarrel with you,” rumbled Fenris, growing irritated. “I am here peaceably. I meant you no harm; it was you who made the first move.”

“And I shall make the last, beast!” retorted Kuriel heatedly as the curtain covering the door was suddenly thrown aside and Hawke poked his head outside to see what all the noise was.

“Is there a problem, Fenris?” he asked, laying a hand on the hilt of his sword as Kuriel jerked around, eyes widening slightly before his expression darkened. He jabbed a finger towards Fenris.

“This is not over, _abomination_!” he hissed as he stalked away.

Hawke raised an eyebrow at Fenris, who shook his head as he mounted the steps. Hawke stepped aside and held the curtain open as the elf ducked inside, then followed him in.

Fenris glanced around the inside of the aravel. Varric and Merrill both looked up as he entered.

“Good to see you back on your feet, Elf!” greeted Varric, as Merrill gave him a cheerful smile.

“It is... good to be back on my feet,” replied Fenris. He was interrupted by a quiet snore and glanced around.

“Blondie’s still out for the count,” explained Varric as Fenris approached the sleeping mage. Anders was sprawled on his stomach on one of the small cots, his feet dangling comically over the end of the mattress, his arms folded beneath the pillow his face was snuggled into. He was still fully dressed, and filthy dirty - his clothes still dusty from the talus slope, dried blood still flaking from the side of his face and caking in his loose hair which was scattered over his pillow and shoulders. Fenris leaned down and gently brushed the hair away from the sleeping man’s face.

Hawke walked over to his side and stood beside the elf, looking down at the sleeping mage. “What’s going on, Fenris?” he asked quietly.

“It is complicated,” replied Fenris tersely. Hawke gave him a sidelong glance and lifted an eyebrow at him. Fenris returned his stare uncomfortably, then seated himself carefully on the edge of the small cot next to the unconscious Anders.

“It is difficult to spend several days in close company with someone and not have it affect how you... feel about someone,” he remarked quietly. “I had been... re-examining some of my feelings regarding the mage. And circumstances have... forced a new perspective also.”

“Oh boy, I just bet they have,” remarked Varric. “You just know Rivaini’s going to have a field day with this when we get back. I can see the friend fic already writing itself!”

Fenris turned and glared at the dwarf, who raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Hey, I’m only telling it like it is, Elf. You know how Isabela is.”

“Anders said he was just grateful to you for saving his life,” said Hawke. Fenris glanced down at the sleeping Anders.

“Grateful?” he mused. Hawke frowned. Was that a note of... disappointment in the white-haired elf’s voice?

“He certainly seemed grateful,” remarked Merrill. “If the lightning bolt and fireball he threw at Kuriel’s brother was anything to go by. He seemed very angry. Especially when Kuriel wanted Hawke to hand you over so he could kill you and he thought Hawke was going to do it.” Fenris’ head jerked up and she coloured. “Oh. Um. I probably shouldn’t have told you that bit. Pretend I didn’t say anything.”

Fenris stared up at Hawke.

“There was never any danger of us handing you over,” Hawke reassured him. “I’d slaughter the whole clan before I’d let them take you. I rather got the impression Anders took the same view. What was it he said to Kuriel’s brother when we found them, Varric?”

“I believe the precise words were, ‘Over my dead body’, Hawke,” replied the dwarf, then chuckled. “Your face is a real picture, Elf.”

Fenris coloured slightly and glanced away. “I believe the Keeper said she would have food sent to us,” he said uncomfortably in an effort to change the subject.

“What are you going to tell him when he wakes up?” asked Varric as Hawke wandered over to the door to peer out.

“I don’t see that that is any of your concern,” he replied coolly.

“Well, you’d better work it out now, before he decides you’re none of his. Blondie’s not one to hang around forever waiting for a sign,” remarked the dwarf, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs at the ankles. “Leave him guessing too long and he might just fall for some other big strong warrior type with a bigger sword.” He winked then turned away.


	12. Chapter 12

Anders was pleasantly drifting in that half-dreaming state before true awakening when he became aware of something stroking his cheek. He shifted a little on the warm, soft bed, turning his face a little upon the pillow. The touch paused, then resumed its gentle motion. His drifting mind slowly conjured up an image of a large orange tabby cat, steadily licking his face, and he smiled happily at the dream. “Pounce,” he murmured fondly.

But no, the touch was softer than the sandpaper rasp of a cat’s tongue. The dream-cat shifted, blurred and grew, the pelt becoming golden. “Ugh... Dog....no,” he muttered in a half-hearted protest. He tried to turn his face away into the pillow. Then something touched his hair and there was breath on the side of his face - not the rankness of a mabari’s breath but almost without scent save for a faint metallic sweetness almost reminiscent of lyrium. The pelt faded to silver and grew longer, shaggier; marbled with pure white as glass-green eyes regarded him enigmatically.

He stilled as the wolf nosed him gently, watching it warily. It nosed him again, and obediently he rolled over onto his side as it stretched out beside him. Placing a paw upon his shoulder to keep him in place, it resumed grooming him, washing his face as gently as a mother wolf washing her cub. He closed his eyes as the wolf gently licked his forehead, and then fingers were carding through his damp hair, and a low voice murmured his name.

His eyes slowly fluttered open as he pulled himself from the dream to find himself staring into the enigmatic green gaze of Fenris. “Anders,” he repeated quietly. He held a damp cloth in one hand, and the apostate realised the elf must have been washing his face whilst he slept. He blinked dazedly.

“How long have I been asleep?” he murmured, running a hand over his face as he tried to dispel the last fragments of the dream.

“Ten hours, according to Hawke. You should eat something.”

Anders pushed himself up on one elbow and lifted a hand but hesitated. “May I?” he asked, a little timidly.

It was Fenris’ turn to look wary; he tilted his head a little to one side. After a moment, he nodded once.

Anders gently touched his fingertips to Fenris’ temple and closed his eyes for a moment as he concentrated. Then a look of relief crossed his face and he let his hand fall as he opened his eyes again. “You’re fine,” he said thankfully.

“The Keeper Marethari treated my wounds, though she said you had already done most of the healing,” replied Fenris. “She says you are a... skillful healer.”

Anders pushed himself upright. “It’s what I do...what I am,” he replied as he straightened his robes and tunic. “The fireballs, the ice and the lightning - they’re fun and flashy. Make for a good show, keep the darkspawn from chewing your leg off, that kind of thing. And you’d be amazed just how much a little ice or electricity can spice things up in the bedroom - just ask Isabela!” Fenris frowned and Anders added hurriedly, “or, er, don’t ask Isabela. In fact forget I ever mentioned her. Or bedrooms. Ah.” He blushed as Fenris continued to stare at him. “But what I am - what I’ve always been - is a spirit healer.”

“And does that have uses in the bedroom as well?” asked Fenris dryly.

“It can, yes,” agreed Anders. “There’s this fantastic little trick that I -” He broke off and groaned. “Oh Maker, I’m babbling and making this worse.”

“This?” Fenris arched one eyebrow.

“This. Us. I mean, uh, this conversation,” stammered Anders. “Oh sweet Andraste’s farts, someone kill me now.” He buried his face in his hands.

Fenris regarded the embarrassed mage steadily, a small smile playing about his lips. “And after I went to such efforts to keep you alive,” he mused. “One might think you were... _ungrateful_ , mage.”

Anders let his hands fall into his lap, his face serious. “No. Never that. I would have died had you not rescued me. I would never have survived the blizzard. You saved me from the templars, and you kept me warm when I would have died of the cold. I owe you my life.” He held Fenris’ gaze, unwavering. “I do not take such debts lightly, Fenris.”

“So I have come to understand,” replied Fenris, sitting back. “What were the words? … ah, yes. ‘Over my dead body’, I believe.”

Anders’ fingers twisted together. “I wouldn’t have just stood by and watch him slaughter you, even if I didn’t already owe you my life, you know,” he said diffidently. “No more than I would any of us. Even Sebastian, hard though that may be to believe.”

Fenris leaned closer and placed his hand against Anders’ chest, over his heart, and the mage stilled, his eyes widening at the unexpected contact. “And would you welcome his touch after? Like this?”

“Fenris, what - what are you....” he stammered, leaning back a little as he lifted his hands up but didn’t touch the elf. Fenris merely smiled as he moved closer and pulled open the front of the tatty grey robes then plucked the hem of his worn linen shirt free of his pants. Anders leaned back as the elf shifted to his feet and leaned over him, slipping his hands beneath the shirt and running them slowly up Anders’ lean torso.

“Your heart is racing,” observed Fenris quietly as Anders fell back upon the bed.

“Maybe I’m afraid you’re going to eat me,” replied Anders breathlessly as the elf straddled his hips, pinning him to the bed. Anders’ hands hovered by Fenris’ wrists for a few moments as though to push him away, then Anders let them fall back to the bed upon either side of his head as he stared up at the elf.

“Maybe I will,” replied Fenris. “Though you’re so scrawny, you’d make barely a mouthful.”

“I haven’t eaten in three days,” Anders murmured.

“We’ll have to do something about that,” whispered Fenris as he leaned closer. Anders’ eyes fluttered closed as Fenris’ breath ghosted over his skin, and his lips parted. Fenris slipped his hands free of the linen shirt and cradled Anders’ face in his hands, and then slowly, gently, he kissed him. The apostate willingly surrendered his mouth to the elf’s tongue as Fenris tasted him, moaning softly.

As the kiss deepened, Anders lifted his arms and wrapped them around Fenris, drawing him closer until their bodies were pressed together. Fenris made a faint sound of surprise then rumbled with pleasure. He slipped one hand free and slid it slowly down Anders’ body to cup the apostate’s groin and was rewarded by the feel of the mage’s obvious arousal as Anders broke off the kiss, throwing his head back with a gasp and then groaning.

Fenris dipped his head and lapped at the hollow at the base of Anders’ throat with his tongue, then slowly licked a wet trail back up towards Anders’ warm and inviting mouth, the lips reddened so enticingly as the apostate’s breath hitched. The elf smiled and claimed Anders’ mouth once more.

“Fenris, is Anders awake yet? Hawke says....” Merrill’s voice trailed off as she ducked around the curtain. “Oh, am I interrupting something? Oh. Ohhh!”

Fenris broke off the kiss to glare at her. “Go. Away.”

She went.

Fenris glanced back down at Anders, who had opened his eyes again and was regarding him with a look of faint bewilderment. Fenris arched an eyebrow in silent query.

“I... don’t understand,” Anders murmured. “This isn’t just simple gratitude. Something’s changed.”

“It has,” agreed Fenris quietly, as he lifted a hand to stroke his fingers through the soft golden hair. “Or rather, perhaps I have.”

“What happened?” asked Anders. “Don’t get me wrong,” he added hastily. “I rather like this new Fenris. But we’ve pulled each other out of bad scrapes with Hawke before - when you’re injured, I’ve always healed you without question, and despite the friction between us you’ve always come to my aid when I’ve been struggling in a fight. What’s changed?”

Fenris stared down at Anders, then quietly said just one word. “Abomination.”

Anders visibly flinched.

Instantly Fenris bent down to nuzzle his cheek as his fingers stroked soothingly through the loose hair in mute apology. “Forgive me,” he murmured. “Forgive me for ever having thrown that word at you, in spite or anger or in plain ignorance. I never knew how much a simple word could hurt. I regret I ever used it of you.”

Anders slid his arms around the elf, lifting one hand to cradle the back of the elf’s head as the elf quietly murmured his apologies.

“Something’s happened to you,” he whispered breathlessly as Fenris began to gently nibble and kiss his way along Anders’ jawline. “It’s not just a word. Back in the cave... and now here. Something’s happened between us. We’ve both changed.” As the elf’s lips reached Anders’ lips again, the mage placed his hands on Fenris’ shoulders and held him back, forcing the elf to look at him. Fenris raised his eyebrows.

“I need to know that things aren’t going to go back to the way they were,” Anders pleaded. “I need to know that this isn’t some passing fancy of yours. You know too much of me that you could hurt me with. This... us... it would kill me to go back to how it was. You terrify and intoxicate me equally, and I’m terribly afraid you’re going to be the death of me but I... I can’t pull away.”

“Things could never go back to how they were,” rumbled Fenris. “You have changed me, mage... Anders. You know who and what I am, yet never once have you betrayed that to anyone else. You defended me with your own life. Despite every insult I ever threw at you, you have been there, the selfless healer, pushing yourself beyond your own endurance even when I offered only insults in return. You have shamed me, Anders. You have shown me that not all mages are Danarius; that magic can bring healing as well as harm. You have shown me the gentle side of magic, and that... has shaken me to my core. I cannot go back to how I was - not now my eyes have been opened.” He smiled and gently stroked the backs of his fingers down the side of Anders’ face. “And I want you to show me more. I need you to help me keep my eyes open. To help me be who I truly am and no longer the snarling wolf.”

Anders’ hands relaxed on his shoulders, and Fenris slipped his arms around the mage and drew him close. “You have tamed this wolf,” he whispered into Anders’ ear. “And now this wolf would die for you.”

Anders made a choked sound, then buried his face against the elf’s neck. “I thought this part of me was gone forever,” he breathed. “I never dreamed... never dared to dream that after Justice, I could find love again. Oh Maker, this could all be a disaster!”

“Then we will weather it together,” rumbled Fenris softly.

They were suddenly interrupted as Anders’ stomach rumbled loudly. They stared at each other, startled, and then Anders began to helplessly giggle as the elf chuckled. “I _did_ say I hadn’t eaten in three days,” Anders pointed out.

“So you did,” agreed Fenris as he pushed himself back up off the slender mage. “Come, let us fill that rumbling void before you starve away completely.” He stood and offered Anders his hand. Anders stared at the lyrium-lined fingers for a moment, struck by how casually Fenris offered the contact, then he took it and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. He blinked as a wave of dizziness swept over him, and he felt Fenris’ arm slip around his waist, supporting him.

“Food would definitely be a good idea,” Anders muttered as they made their way together towards the door of the aravel.

The others were sitting on a pile of colourful mats and furs near the bottom of the stairs leading into the aravel; a small pot of stew sat between them together with small platters of flatbread and winter-stored fruits. They were all wearing warm fur throws, and they turned and glanced up as the elf and the apostate appeared. It was obvious they had been waiting for the pair. Varric noted the elf’s hand around the apostate’s waist as they began to make their way down the stairs, and he slapped Hawke’s shoulder. “Hah! Told you! Pay up, Hawke!” he crowed as the warrior grumbled and fumbled in his belt pouch for a couple of gold coins which he flipped to the dwarf.

“You laid coin against Varric over us?” exclaimed Anders.

“Makes a change from losing to the elf, eh, Hawke?” chuckled Varric. Anders groaned and shook his head. Fenris glanced at Merrill with a frown; she raised her hands in innocence. “It wasn’t me!” she squeaked. “I didn’t say anything!”

“Believe it or not, Fenris, we do all have eyes and can see the signs,” remarked Hawke. “I thought you’d wait until we were back at Kirkwall to make your move, Varric thought you’d pounce on him here.”

“Maybe it was me who did the pouncing,” suggested Anders. Fenris gave him a pointed look and Hawke and Varric burst out into laughter. Anders shrugged and sat down on the bottom step of the aravel. Fenris selected a fur from the mats then carefully draped it around Anders’ shoulders before crouching down next to the pot of stew to fill a couple of bowls. He sat down next to the mage and passed him a bowl before starting to eat himself. Anders began shovelling stew into himself hastily.

Hawke regarded them thoughtfully over the rim of his own bowl. “So, how does this change things?” he asked. “You two, I mean.”

“I’m thinking it’ll make things a little quieter,” remarked Varric.

Anders paused, his spoon half-way to his mouth. “I wouldn’t bet on it,” he remarked with a small half-smile. “I can’t shut up to save my life.” Fenris gave him a pointed look and he hastily shoved the spoon into his mouth.

There was silence for a little while, punctuated only by the sounds of eating. As Fenris laid aside his empty bowl and reached for a piece of fruit, he became painfully aware of eyes watching him. He glanced up.

Several of the Dalish had gathered a little way off and were whispering to each other and gesturing towards them - specifically him. Varric glanced up, noticed his expression, then followed his gaze. “Uh oh,” he murmured. “Hawke, looks like we’ve got trouble.”

The warrior laid down his bowl and got to his feet as Merrill did likewise, Varric moving to stand beside Hawke. Anders glanced up and started to rise to his feet but froze as Fenris laid his hand on his shoulder. He glanced up and the elf shook his head slightly. Anders frowned, but stayed where he was, instead reaching for his staff.

“Isn’t that Daruviel?” Hawke asked Merrill as a red-headed elf detached himself from the group and walked over towards them. behind him they could see Kuriel scowling as he said something to the others in a low voice.

Merrill went forward to speak quietly with Daruviel; occasional words drifted back to the others as the red-headed hunter gestured towards Fenris, then back towards Kuriel. Hawke caught the words _fen_ , _din’enansal_ , _nanalin_ uttered repeatedly. _Wolf. Accursed. Blood debt._ Hawke glanced back at Fenris and saw the words and their meaning were not lost upon the elf.

Then Daruviel and Merrill turned and approached the group.

“I’m not going to like this, am I?” remarked Hawke, noting the unhappy expression on Merrill’s face. Beside her Daruviel looked grave but not unsympathetic.

“Kuriel is issuing a challenge to Fenris,” replied Merrill, twisting her fingers together unselfconsciously. “He is claiming the right to demand _nanalin_ \- the blood debt. He says that only blood for blood will satisfy his need for revenge for his brother’s death.”

“But it wasn’t Fenris who killed his brother!” cried Anders.

“Anders....” said Fenris in a low voice, setting his hand on the mage’s shoulder. Anders shrugged him off as he stood and pushed forward.

“It’s not Fenris he should fight but me!” he said vehemently. “I’m the one responsible for his brother’s death!”

“Anders, no!” said Fenris as Daruviel turned to stare at the lender blond apostate in surprise.

“You? _You_ killed Tolwen?” he said disbelievingly. “You weak _shemlen len'alas lath'din_! Do you truly expect me to believe that?”

Anders pushed himself forward until he towered over the Dalish hunter.

“I don’t care what you believe,” he said quietly. “I speak the truth. And I will say it again before your Keeper until you accept it. I will not allow you or your clan to accuse an innocent man for my actions.”

“Anders, think what you are saying!” hissed Fenris as he grasped Anders’ arm and pulled him round to face him. “Do you -”

He got no further, for at that moment a bow sang out and suddenly Anders staggered, reaching up to clutch at his right shoulder and the Dalish arrow that had embedded itself deep in his flesh, just below the collarbone. Fenris caught him as his legs gave way, and stared back at Kuriel who regarded him with an unrepentant sneer as he lowered his bow.

The snarl that ripped free from Fenris’ lips was utterly inhuman.


	13. Chapter 13

Hawke came to the stricken mage’s side, reaching to take the apostate from the elf and lowering him gently to the ground as Fenris snarled in fury. Merrill stepped in front of Fenris and he glared at her.

“ _Lethallin_ , listen to me,” she said low and urgently. “There are rules to _nanalin_. You cannot use magic; you can’t do your ghost thing or that - that fisting thing you do with hearts. It has to be a fight between warriors, your blade against his. Knives only.”

Fenris’ face was contorted in rage and he betrayed no sign that he even heard her. She reached out and set her hands on his shoulders, but didn’t back down when he growled at her, low and inhuman. “Fenris! You have to listen to me! You have to abide by the rules! It’s the only reason why they’re holding back. If you break the rules, they will be free to kill you and not even Keeper Marethari will be able to stop them.”

Fenris finally seemed to hear what she was saying; he lifted his glance to her face. “You have to keep a clear head!” she insisted. “He will try to push you into a rage, but you must not let him!” Fenris blinked, then bowed his head as he sought to control his rage.

Daruviel stepped forward, drawing his own dagger from his belt and holding the hilt out towards the white-haired elf. “Kuriel has acted dishonourably and would bring disgrace upon the whole clan,” he said darkly. “Take my blade and avenge the blood of your friend.”

Fenris nodded and took the dagger. “My thanks,” he said quietly. Though his jade-green eyes still held a raging fury, that anger was now as cold as ice, and a calm had settled over him that seemed somehow more terrifying than his incandescent rage of a moment ago.

“Let this be between you and Kuriel,” replied Daruviel. “Let this enmity between our people end here. One will die this day, but I swear to you on the honour of our clan that this matter will end here and your companions will hold the friendship and respect of our people. Kuriel started this feud; let it end here.”

“No!” murmured Anders, lifting one hand towards Fenris who turned and, dropping to one knee, took it gently, lifting the pale fingers to his lips and bestowing a chaste kiss upon them.

“This is how it must be,” he said quietly. “It was Kuriel who shot me first, though his brother pursued me. And now, by hurting you, he has sealed his own fate. It is as this warrior says; one way or another, this ends here.”

“No, Fenris, wait-” cried Anders and broke off with a small cry, clutching at the arrow. Fenris lowered his head then rose and turned away to slowly stalk towards the dark-haired Dalish warrior.

“ _Ar tu na'lin emma mi_!” called Kuriel in challenge, pointing his blade at Fenris. Behind him, Daruviel quietly translated. “‘I will see your blood upon my blade.’”

Fenris merely smiled coldly as he walked out to meet him.

Merrill watched him go and wrung her hands as she frowned.

“Merrill!” called Hawke; she turned and glanced at him, then at Anders and hurried over to the mage’s other side. Anders lay in Hawke’s arms, barely conscious, his face white. “Something’s wrong,” Hawke said in a low voice. “I’ve seen Anders take arrow wounds before and carry on fighting, but this one arrow has taken him down far too fast. Do the Dalish use poison?”

“Magebane,” murmured Anders, his eyelids fluttering. “Can’t think straight...so tired....”

“I’ll fetch the Keeper,” said Merrill, pushing herself back up onto her feet. “Maybe she can put a stop to all this madness.” She turned and sprinted away and was soon lost to sight between the aravels. Hawke watched her go, then stared down at Anders who was drifting in and out of consciousness. “Hang in there, Anders,” he urged the mage.

“Hawke,” called Varric. “It’s started.”

Hawke glanced up.

Fenris and Kuriel were circling each other. Both had stripped down to pants and a tunic, and each was armed only with a single long, curved dagger that reminded Hawke of Isabela’s fighting knives. The two elves moved with a sinuous grace through the steps of a particularly deadly dance - the one white-haired, his body delineated by the raised whorls and lines of lyrium branded into his skin; the other dark-haired, the dark lines of _vallaslin_ turning his face into a mask. Almost like two sides of the same coin they seemed; the one born a slave in Tevinter, the other born into the freedom of the Dalish.

Suddenly, as though at an unseen signal, the two elves leapt towards each other and a cry went up from the onlookers as blades clashed, slashing and parrying as Fenris and Kuriel grappled with each other. The blades flashed almost too fast to follow - even for an experienced warrior like Hawke who had fought with knives often enough himself to know the moves.

Kuriel’s eyes held furious hate as he slashed in towards Fenris’ unprotected stomach; Fenris’ green eyes held only icy determination as he twisted aside, striking Kuriel’s knife-hand aside with the back of his left wrist whilst he jabbed towards the other elf’s throat with his own blade. Kuriel parried the jab with a punch to the inside of Fenris’ elbow; as Fenris recoiled away, Kuriel brought his blade slicing up and narrowly missed the white-haired elf’s ribs. Fenris dropped and swept out with one foot to trip Kuriel; in a flash, he was atop the other man with his knife driving towards Kuriel’s face. Kuriel twisted beneath him and the blade embedded itself in the hard, half-frozen ground and was wedged there.

Fenris tried to free the blade even as Kuriel writhed beneath him. Then suddenly Kuriel’s foot connected sharply with Fenris’ hip and he was abruptly flipped over onto his back as the Dalish hunter flung himself atop the Tevinter elf, his curved blade flashing as it slashed towards Fenris’ throat. A cry went up from the onlookers, but Fenris struck Kuriel’s knife-hand aside at the last moment with the heel of his right hand, immediately following it up with a left jab to the dark-haired elf’s jaw. As Kuriel’s head snapped back under the force of the blow, Fenris’ right hand was still following through on his block, his fingers wrapping vice-like around Kuriel’s right wrist as Fenris twisted beneath the Dalish elf then heaved, throwing Kuriel onto the ground on his back and slamming his left elbow back into Kuriel’s face, bloodying his nose even as Kuriel was still dazed from the punch to his jaw.

Despite the dizziness and the blood running down his face from his broken nose, the Dalish hunter managed to retain enough presence of mind to fist Fenris’ snow-white hair with his free hand however and he yanked Fenris’ head back, baring his dusky throat and the gleaming white lyrium markings there as he sought to bring his knife round by sheer brute force against Fenris’ restraining grip. Caught at an awkward angle, Fenris strained to hold Kuriel’s knife-hand down but steadily the blade inched closer and closer towards his throat.

Abruptly Fenris drew up his knees and rolled back and over Kuriel's shoulder, unheeding of the handful of white hair that ripped free from his scalp as he continued the movement into a backflip, landing in a crouch next to his knife which he wrenched free before springing back at Kuriel again - even as the Dalish elf rolled sideways and came to his feet and launched himself at Fenris. Teeth bared in a snarl, Fenris grappled with Kuriel’s knife hand even as the Dalish hunter grasped his own knife hand. They grappled together, neither man giving before the other, their muscles trembling as strength was pitted against strength. Both were evenly matched. They circled about each other, each vying for dominance; occasionally one or the other would break free and blows would be exchanged in a flurry of silver blades before wrestling once more, neither gaining the upper hand until both were bleeding from a multitude of slashes and cuts but neither having the edge over the other.

If he could but embrace his lyrium markings, Fenris knew this would all be over in seconds - but he couldn’t; he daren’t. Nor could he embrace the wolf. To do either would mean to forfeit everything, and a handful of bows were already trained upon him for just such an eventuality.

Out of the corner of his eye, Fenris caught sight of Merrill hurrying back with the Keeper and one of her assistants. Kuriel noticed his distraction and grinned unpleasantly. “Say goodbye to your pet mage, abomination!” he hissed. “Even the Keeper can’t save him now!”

Fenris narrowed his eyes at Kuriel, and the Dalish elf laughed. “Magebane and deathroot!” he grinned. “It’s in his blood. He’ll be dead in a matter of hours!”

Fenris felt the furious rage rising in him like bitter bile and he growled - a low, inhuman sound, as he lunged at Kuriel. With a sudden twist of his wrist, his knife-hand was free. It flashed in the cold light and then blood splashed as the curbed blade was buried to its hilt in Kuriel’s shoulder, even as he felt the other elf punch him hard in the gut. Then pain blossomed in his abdomen as he felt something wet and hot flood down the leg of his trousers. Even as he twisted his blade in Kuriel’s shoulder and the Dalish hunter screamed, he felt pain radiating out from where Kuriel’s blade had stabbed him, perhaps two inches above his left hip, wounding him deeply.

Kuriel wrenched himself away from Fenris, unable to keep his grip upon the hilt of his blade embedded in Fenris’ stomach even as he twisted himself free of Daruviel’s blade. Kuriel pressed his free hand to the bloodied ruin of his shoulder as his knife-arm hung limp and useless by his side; panting, he stared at Fenris, wary and yet certain he had dealt the werewolf a mortal blow.

Yet as he watched, Fenris reached up with a trembling hand to clutch the hilt of the knife in his abdomen; with a grunt of pain, he pulled it free. Shifting his grip to hold it by the blade, he raise his head to glare at Kuriel, and a chill ran down the wounded hunter’s spine as Fenris grinned.

“Yours, I believe,” he grinned, and then his hand snapped forward, his aim straight and true. The dagger buried itself to the hilt in the chest of its owner. With a low cry, Kuriel fell, collapsing onto his back. The onlookers fell silent as Fenris clasped his empty hand over the gaping wound above his hip and slowly, haltingly limped towards the fallen elf. He stared down at Kuriel.

The Dalish elf was dying; as Fenris watched, he coughed, the foam upon his lips flecked with bright scarlet blood. He stood over him, Daruviel’s dagger still held in his hand. He lifted his eyes to stare over to where his friends waited. Daruviel was watching, his arms folded as he watched Fenris. Beside him stood Merrill and the Keeper, but he could see no sign of Hawke or Anders. He glanced back down at Kuriel, whose breath was becoming laboured, then he turned and walked away towards Marethari.

“Does he live?” he whispered to her. Her only answer was a silent nod. He closed his eyes and exhaled. “Then I am done,” he replied as he held out the dagger to Daruviel, hilt first. The elf stared at it for a moment, then accepted back as he briefly inclined his head towards Fenris respectfully.

Then Fenris slowly climbed the steps up to the aravel and went inside.


	14. Chapter 14

Fenris pushed open the curtain and ducked his head as he entered the aravel. He took a handful of steps inside then grabbed for the table, bracing his hands flat against its surface as he leaned heavily over it, closing his eyes against a wave of dizziness.

Hawke pushed himself up from Anders’ bedside and was instantly at Fenris’ side as Merrill appeared behind him, both slipping arms around his waist to catch him as he swayed.

“I’m alright,” he gasped, clutching at the knife wound as Hawke took more of the elf’s weight. 

“No you’re not, Elf,” replied Varric as he appeared beside them, uncorking a healing potion which he shoved at Fenris. “Get that inside you and we’ll be a whole lot less worried.”

Fenris downed the potion steadily, not even pulling a face at the cloying sweetness or the unpleasant after-taste. He looked down at the knife wound and breathed a faint sigh of relief as the rivulets of blood diminished to a slow seeping. Merrill pulled out a chair and Hawke forced him down into it so that Varric could stemmed the bleeding further by a deft application of a dressing and bandage. 

He bowed his head and sat, unresisting barring the occasional flinch, twitch or jerk, as Hawke, Varric and Merrill set to work cleaning and dressing his many cuts, slashes and abrasions from the fight. He was unused to being touched so much - by so many at once; but his brands lay quiescent, and his friends’ touches were gentle as they tended his wounds. He lifted his eyes only to stare at the blond apostate who lay unconscious on the low cot, stripped down to his pants as Fenris was now, bandages swathing Anders’ upper torso and shoulder.

Varric pushed another potion into his hand; he accepted it and downed it mechanically, still staring at Anders.

“The Keeper says itwas a close thing, but she reached him in time. He should make a full recovery,” Merrill told him quietly. “It will take a while before he throws off the effects of the poison though. He needs to sleep it off.”

“Kuriel said he used magebane and deathroot,” replied Fenris, his voice flat.

“Marethari said she could sense something inside him fighting back against the poison,” replied Hawke. “Maybe it’s something to do with being a Grey Warden?”

Fenris shrugged and tried to stand up. Hawke tried to forestall him with a hand upon his shoulder, but Fenris jerked away from his touch and pushed past him to make his way to Anders’ side.

He stood there for some time, staring down at Anders, swaying slightly. 

“Fenris....” said Hawke quietly. The elf lifted a hand briefly to forestall him, then let it fall.

“Leave us,” he said softly then glanced at Hawke. “Please,” he added.

Hawke nodded and glanced at Merrill and Varric, who both nodded and turned to leave, Hawke bringing up the rear. “We’ll be just outside if you need us,” he told the elf quietly. Then they were gone, and Fenris was alone with the unconscious mage.

He sank down onto the edge of the bed. Gently he reached out and ran his fingers through the loose golden hair that fanned out across the pillows like a halo of silk around the sleeping apostate’s head, before lightly running his fingertips down Anders’ cheek. Though pale, his skin was warm, his lips a pale pink instead of the deathly grey they had seemed such a short time before. His breathing was slow but steady; merely lost in sleep rather than dying as he had feared.

There was something fascinating about the mage as he slept, his mind absent. Did he walk in the Fade, Fenris wondered? Wasn’t that how mages dreamed - their minds wandering the spirit realm?

He lifted a limp hand in his, turning it palm uppermost as he explored it with his eyes before slowly running his hands along the bare arm, fascinated by various curious scars. A sword nick here; a curious circular bite there. A slight puckering of the skin where spider venom had blistered the skin. It were as though he were seeing the mage anew for the first time - and perhaps, in a way, he was. Not with the eyes of a distrustful stranger, wary of mages, but with the eyes of - what? A friend? A lover? Something more? He didn’t know. He only knew that he longed for Anders to open his eyes, to speak; to begin to discover together what this was that had awakened between them.

But Anders slept on, oblivious to the elf’s scrutiny; oblivious, too, to the outcome of the duel.

All at once, Fenris became aware of how weary he was; the exertion and adrenaline of the fight - not to mention the loss of blood - all catching up to him at once. His head drooped and he ran a hand slowly over his face. He stretched out beside Anders on the cot and gently drew the sleeping man into his arms. He bestowed a gentle kiss upon the sleeping man’s forehead, and then surrendered to his exhaustion.

.  
.  
.

Anders slept for a full day after the duel. Fenris had awakened after a few hours; Daruviel had brought food to them and news - Kuriel yet clung to life, though it hung in the balance. Hawke, Merrill and Varric had exchanged worried looks at this news, but Fenris merely took his portion of food and retreated back inside the aravel to sit watch of the sleeping Anders.

Daruviel seemed to have overcome his dislike of _shemlen_ ; since the duel, his demeanor had thawed towards the companions. It seemed Fenris had won the respect of many of the hunters by his perceived act of mercy in not finishing Kuriel off at the conclusion of the duel when assured by the Keeper that Anders would live. There was still an undercurrent of tension in the clan, but it seemed many had had their preconceived notions of werewolves shaken by Fenris’ actions. He had proven himself far more than an uncontrollable beast, and the Sabrae clan were divided in their thoughts. _Hahren_ Paivel - the clan’s teacher and storyteller, Merrill explained to them - had come to reassure them that the _hahren_ , or elders, of the Sabrae considered the matter between Fenris and Kuriel to be concluded; by firing unprovoked upon Anders, Kuriel had dishonoured himself, but if Fenris’ intentions towards the Sabrae were peaceable then he and the Champion were still welcome amongst them.

There had been some tension between Paivel and Merrill before he took his leave of them however that led Hawke to feel matters were perhaps not quite as straightforward as the _hahren’s_ words would have had them believe.

“He still won’t accept that I am acting in the best interests of the clan,” Merrill said quietly afterwards. “I know what I’m doing and I know it’s for the best. But he just doesn’t _understand_. I _can’t_ just give it up and come back; my work is not yet finished.”

“What work? What is it you’re doing, Merrill?” asked Hawke. But the elf merely shook her head and wouldn’t be drawn further.

.  
.  
.

Anders startled them all just after noon the following day when he suddenly sat up screaming. Varric had been watching over him; after a quiet argument Hawke had managed to persuade Fenris to come out of the aravel for some fresh air. Varric had just reached over to tuck the blanket more firmly around Anders when his eyes suddenly snapped open and he screamed. Varric jerked back, startled, and Hawke and Fenris came racing in from outside. Fenris pushed the dwarf to one side as he dropped to his knees beside the bed and reached for Anders’ shoulders as the mage stared around himself, eyes wide in horror as he scrabbled against the bedclothes and tried to push himself away from them, until his back was against the wall and he could go no further.

“Easy... easy....” murmured Fenris as Anders gasped for breath and stared at Hawke, then at Varric before finally seeing Fenris properly. He blinked as his eyes finally focused properly on the elf.

“You’re alive!” he breathed “I thought... I feared, but....” He slumped in relief, his head falling forward into his hands. “Oh Maker, the dreams I had....”

“Were but dreams,” said Fenris firmly as he shifted forward to sit upon the edge of the cot and draw Anders to him. Anders winced and put a hand to his shoulder.

“The wound still troubles you?” asked Fenris quietly. Anders nodded, pressing the heel of his hand against the sore spot. “It will pass,” he replied quietly.

“Your magic...?” suggested Fenris. Anders held out a hand and concentrated; a wavering blue glow blossomed out from the palm of his hand then dissipated. He let his hand fall and shook his head. “It will return soon though.” He pushed aside the blankets and swung his legs down to the floor. 

“Kuriel is still alive,” said Fenris quietly. Anders paused in the act of reaching for his shirt; he balled the shirt in his hands as he stared at the floor, then he glanced up at Fenris. Silently he lifted an eyebrow in question. Fenris shrugged. “You survived his attempt upon your life. I could afford to be lenient in the eyes of his clan.”

“Does he feel the same?”

Fenris shrugged again. “I cannot say. I did not say I spared him unscathed. Only time and perhaps the Keeper Marethari can say if he will make a full recovery.”

“Then perhaps it were best if we were to be well on our way before then,” remarked Anders as he donned his shirt.

“Indeed,” concurred Fenris.

“Best not to outstay our welcome,” agreed Varric as he got to his feet and reached for his pack, tossing Merrill and Hawke’s packs over to the Champion. Merrill ducked through the door curtain with a bundle of furs in her arms and glanced round. 

“Oh, are we going then?” she observed as she put the furs on the foot of Anders’ cot and pulled out a leather-wrapped bundle. “Keeper Marethari thought we might be leaving today; these are extra provisions for our journey back, plus furs for warmth. We’ll be better equipped going back than we were coming.”

Fenris plucked a white cloak made of fox pelts from the pile, fingering its silky softness thoughtfully.

“That matches your hair,” observed Anders with a small smile. Fenris snorted derisively - but kept the fur cloak.

.  
.  
.

It had been three weeks since they returned from Sundermount. They had all gone their separate ways; Varric back to the Hanged Man, Hawke to his reclaimed mansion, Anders to his Darktown clinic, Merrill to her little hovel in the alienage. And Fenris had found himself back in the dilapidated mansion that had become his home these past few years.

The emptiness had never bothered him before; the silence had been companionship enough. No-one to answer to; none to impose themselves into his hard-won peace.

And yet....

And yet, his bed seemed too empty, the silence no longer peaceful but instead oppressive. The bedsheet twisted, bunched and wrinkled beneath him as he tossed and turned alone in the large bed. Sleepless, he stared into the darkness, his thoughts haunted by a pair of amber brown eyes.

Finally giving up upon sleep, he disentangled himself from the sheets and sat up, reaching for his tunic then paused, staring down at the fabric. He stared at it, mind blank for a moment, then abruptly stood as he pulled the tunic on and reached for his armour.

A short while later he was striding through the dark streets, mind restless but his feet finding the way with surety. He disregarded the path to Hawke’s mansion; he’d passed many an evening in companionship with the warrior, but not tonight. His feet bore him on through Lowtown, but he passed the Hanged man without a second glance.

He had rarely had cause to enter Darktown on his own; always it had been with Hawke or Varric. But he knew the way; the dark twisted alleyways were not unfamiliar to him. There was no plan in his mind for what he would do when he got there; no ready words upon his tongue. He only knew that he had to see the apostate again.

He paused outside the door of the clinic. The lantern outside was dark, but he could see a faint light from within. He raised a hand to knock, but paused; staring at the rickety wooden door, he frowned a little, then pressed the taloned tips of the gauntleted fingers of his left hand and gently pushed, the other hand snaking to the hilt of his blade in readiness.

The door swung open easily with a faint creak, but the figure sprawled over the small writing desk didn’t stir, the dishevelled golden hair hiding the face of the still figure.

“Mage?”

He crossed the dirt floor in a few short, swift steps, at the apostate’s side in an instant as he rested a hand upon a feathered shoulder and peered down at Anders, apprehension furrowing his brow into a frown. “Anders!” His fingers tightened upon the shoulder.

“Hmm... hmmph?” Anders’ head moved a little as he stirred, eyes blinking dazedly behind the blond hair. Fenris reached down and gently lifted the hair out of the unfocused brown eyes with a single claw. “Wha... Fenris?”

“Are you hurt?”

“No... I was....” Anders slowly sat up and stared down at his desk at the scattered pages and frowned at them. “I don’t remember writing this,” he said in a tone of faint bemusement.

“Do you make a habit of falling asleep over your notes?” asked the elf as he regarded the mage curiously.

“I try not to,” said Anders, grimacing as he stretched, spine and shoulders cracking audibly. “There’s just... not enough hours. Not enough time.”

“Time for what?” asked Fenris as Anders pushed himself away from the desk and stood, swaying a little. Anders shook his head.

“Nothing. Everything.” He glanced up at the elf, frowning a little. “What are you doing here? Is there something wrong? Is Hawke-”

“Hawke is fine, to the best of my knowledge,” replied Fenris, holding up a hand placatingly.

“Oh. Good,” said Anders, still confused. “Then, why...?”

Fenris glanced away, then looked up into Anders’ eyes. Honey eyes. He fell silent, lost for words, simply drinking in the sight of them.

“Fenris, what-” began Anders, but finally Fenris moved, lifting a hand to slide his fingers into the soft golden locks as his palm cupped Anders’ cheek. “Hush,” he murmured.

Then he drew the mage’s face down to his and kissed him.

 

~ _Fin._ ~


End file.
